Blood and Sand - Aesircide
by EitakaJasont
Summary: (Book 1) The man called Max is long gone, reduced to a myth or worshipped as a deity. Some cults speak of a rebirth - when Max will once again appear to save the poor souls of the Wasteland. I don't believe any of it. This mad world is ruled by gods and savages now, and no lone Road Warrior could change that, especially not me. Best I can do is just survive.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

I drive steadily along what was once a highway toward my destination, the Skids. A flannel-clad man is strapped to the hood of my car - a thief who stole five barrels of guzzoline from a Skids local. I was hired to bring him in. The culprit, Billy Bogun, stopped screaming about an hour ago, leading me to believe he exsanguinated from the wounds I gave him. Either that or heat exhaustion. But it doesn't matter; Pash Rash has no concern for this man's well-being. He only needs the body and the stolen goods, so I'll still get paid.

I tap a finger on the cracked fuel gauge of my vehicle. I'm not sure if I'm actually that low on fuel or if my car is lying to me. It does that. Either way, I look forward to taking one of the stolen barrels in the back of my car as payment.

The sun is getting low when I see the Skids on the horizon. It's just as shitty and jury-rigged as everything else in the Wastes. This particular place is composed partly of a half dozen "buildings" constructed out of school buses with stripped interiors. The rest is tents made out of tarps and patched with old t-shirts. The whole town is snuggled up to the side of a small mesa.

As I approach, I see three men just outside the main building of the Skids, which is made out of two buses welded together and surrounded by a small wall of tires. The men are working on a modified ambulance, one of the community's two cars.

I brake to a halt and kill the engine before stepping out of my car. The tallest man crawls out from underneath his and vehicle approaches.

"Eh, now!" Pash Rash shouts, his unfamiliar accent as thick as his red beard and his foul stench. "I tol' you we could count on this lone Road Warrior, din't I, lads?"

His assistants don't respond.

"I see ye weren't gentle on the Bogan bastard!" Rash exclaims in a singsong voice as he rolls the thief's limp head around on the hood of my car.

Pash Rash meets my gaze. Well, one of his eyes does; the other appears to not take any orders from the man. His beard is littered with blood, oil, and dirt. His grime-encrusted coveralls are several sizes too big for him, held up with belts and garnished with a tool pouch.

"Now, I'll have me boys unpack all but one of them barrels, jus' like we's agreed. In addition to the wateh," the man says, handing me a sizeable canteen that he had tucked away in his tool pouch. "I'll even give ye a little bonus, for bein' so quick about the job!" He lets out a hearty laugh. "That, an' I like you, ye daft bastard!"

The two other men limp toward the back of my car to gather the guzzoline. One look at their crippled bodies, with frames smaller than even Pash Rash, and it's easy to see why the relatively fit, full-life mechanic is the leader of this settlement.

"Wait," I call to Rash's cronies before they reach my ride.

I start towards the vehicle, passing the skeletal men in a few strides. My legs work just fine, unlike theirs. I've managed to keep most of my body intact thus far - save for my right ear, which got shot off a thousand or so days ago in a little skirmish over my car. But that was a small price to pay for this machine, which has gotten me through many a scrape. It isn't much of a fighter, but it's fast and sturdy. I can do the fighting when the time comes; the car just gets me there.

I see my reflection in the window as I approach the car: tall; thin; facial hair cut close to the skin whenever I get the chance; shoulder-length, blonde hair bleached almost white from the sunlight; eyes a contrasting dark brown; right ear missing. As for clothes, I wear a dark blue sweater underneath a grey leather jacket that conceals a sheathed knife; dark brown leather pants; belt with a holstered pistol; and black boots. Missing my scarf.

I reach for the door handle. The exposed metal is hot under the sun, but my calloused hands hardly feel the burn as I open the passenger side.

"Sorry," I call back to Rash. "Don't like other people touching my car."

I've been through a lot out here - more than enough to know that there's no such thing as too careful when it comes to letting someone near my vehicle, even if they're crippled men like these. I lift the lever and fold the passenger seat down to reveal the barrels sitting cozily where the back seats used to be.

I do a quick visual scan of the interior, making sure nothing of value is exposed. I don't own much that I don't keep on me at all times - a few extra tools, a couple hidden weapons, some ammunition, medical supplies - but I don't want to risk anything being stolen. The back area is clear except for the barrels, so I move to the front. My eyes flit over the worn out metal and the scratched up leather. Everything is hidden as it should be - everything except my scarf, which is curled up on the driver seat. I take a couple quick gulps from the canteen, tuck it under the driver seat, and drape the scarf over my shoulders. Then I step away from the car and motion for the men to carry on. As they shuffle towards the open door, I can't help but wonder if they'll even be able to lift the barrels. But that's their problem, not mine. My work here is nearly done.

I take a few steps back towards Rash, positioning myself at an angle so I can talk to him and keep an eye on his men at the same time. I fight the urge to cross my arms. It's an old habit of mine that just won't seem to die, even after all this time. If I need to bring out my pistol or knife in a hurry, the last thing I need is tangled arms. I stick my thumbs in my pants pockets instead - still not ideal, but it's a compromise.

"You're welcome to take the body, too," I say to Rash, tilting my chin towards the hood of my car. "Said something about a bonus, yeah?"

"O' course!" The mechanic grins widely. "Honest work is as rare as good women nowadays! Behavior such a' that should be rewarded!"

All the commotion draws another figure out from the confines of the Skids. He appears to be the most deformed of the three half-lives. Red patches of scab or rash run from his balding head to his torso, which partly covered by a wife-beater. His left arm is significantly shorter and more sickly than his right. The cretin is shorter than his companions, too, mostly due to a hunched back. He also has somewhat of a gut, which only looks more exaggerated on his skinny and frail frame. The newcomer walks past Pash Rash and heads towards my car. I watch him with narrowed eyes.

"And as fer the body," Rash says with significantly less enthusiasm, pulling a jack knife from one of his many belts. "I'll have Chockers take care of 'im for ye."

The hairy man tosses the knife to the small man, Chockers, who displays surprising dexterity as he catches it. He flicks the blade open and cuts the rope in one fluid motion.

"You can jus' wait right there. I'll run in and grab yer shit, so you can keep an eye on the lads," Pash says as he spins around and walks toward the double-bus building.

For a while, I get to see the men work. The two collecting the guzzoline work together to carefully move one barrel at a time, setting them inside the ambulance. They're stronger than they look, but that's not saying much.

As for Chockers, he has little trouble prying the dead man from the hood of my car. As the corpse flops to the ground, the man looks intrigued. Curiously, he unbuttons the bloodstained flannel and removes it from the dead thief before putting it on over his ragged wife-beater. He looks pleased. The half-life, who is practically a corpse himself, then drags the body of Billy Bogan not-so-elegantly towards the compound. When he nears me, he stops, as if he forgot what he was doing. The hunchback lets go of the corpse, which lands with a soft thud in the sand. Then he looks up me inquisitively.

"So…" he rasps. "How did you kill this man? Did he put up much of a fight?"

"You got a morbid curiosity, yeah?" I say, surprised that the man spoke to me at all. "Well…"

I hesitate, weighing whether or not I want to share the story. The more people know about the way I operate, the more threatening they are to me. But this particular tale is pretty short and sweet, so I don't see much harm in telling it.

"I waited till he got stupid and let his guard down," I say after a moment. "Didn't take long. He was so eager to get some fuel in his car that he almost didn't notice me sneaking up on him. When he did, he was too slow on the draw."

I smirk a little, remembering the look on Bogun's face when he turned and saw me.

"Knifed him a couple times," I continue. "Then strapped him to my car and let time do the rest. I'm surprised you couldn't hear his screams from here."

Chockers stares at me with a childlike wonder in his eye. I blink down at him and his new flannel.

"Uh… Sorry about all the blood on that shirt," I add.

The hunchback seems to snap out of his trance. He adopts a more solemn look.

"It's okay…" He coughs as he picks up the body. "Blood doesn't really bother me."

With a sigh, the cripple begins dragging Bogan into the Skids. At the same time, the other two men finish packing the last of the barrels into the ambulance. They disappear underneath the bowels of the vehicle's machinery to continue their work. I notice they didn't shut my door, either because they respect that I don't want my car touched or because they simply forgot. I can't really gauge the intelligence of these men.

The sun is setting. It will be night soon, shifting the world from a scorching heat to a crippling chill.

Pash Rash finally steps out of the main building. The cross-eyed main is carrying what appears to be a large, rusted pot with a latched lid. He grunts as he carries the thing towards my car. He moves to set it on the hood before quickly deciding against it and putting the pot on the ground. Smart man.

"It may not look like much, since ye ain't from around here," Rash gasps as he unhooks the lid. "But where I come from, shit's nearly as valuable as oil or ammo."

The top comes off, and I peer inside. The contents of the container appear to be mostly a sand-colored salt and some kind of black pebbles. The mechanic stands up and places his hands on his hips, seemingly proud of himself.

"Spices. Straight from the ki… the kay… the kiez…" He struggles to pronounce a word before promptly giving up. "The Emperor himself. It makes e'rything taste better. Rotten carcasses, cat food, maggots - hell, you could even put it on shit!"

"Uh, thanks," I reply, equally amused and disgusted at the thought of Rash eating shit with spices on it. "I'll be sure to put it to good use."

I gaze down at the open pot and its contents, wondering what I could trade it for. And where. I haven't met many people around here lately who're interested in more than water, fuel, and bullets.

"This Emperor you mentioned," I begin, looking up from the pot to meet Rash's good eye. "Who is he?"

"The…" He pauses and starts to silently form a word but then abandons it. "Emperor is the self-appointed ruler out here in this neck of the Wastes." Pash stops to lick his lips. "Well, not _here_ here. We are about two days south of where his territory begins. Sorry, I can't fer the life o' me pronounce what he calls himself. Hey, boys!" he calls to the two handicapped mechanics working on the pursuit vehicle. "What the hell does the leader of the Empire call himself?"

The two men don't come out from under the car or in the engine where they are working. After a few moments, one speaks up without moving.

"Caesar!" His voice sounds strained.

"Uh. Yeah, that." Pash looks at the ground sheepishly. "Anyway, he rules his territory with an iron fist. Likes to trade spices, oil, bullets, water, and slaves between his cities - independant city-states he might as well control - and 'barbarians.'" On 'barbarian' he puts up two fingers on each hand and wiggles them up and down. Then he begins pacing back and forth as he continues speaking. "If yer lookin' fer work, you could go to him or one of his cities. They are always looking to hire barbarians to guard trading caravans or clean up the rabble. Jus' be careful, his whims change dramatically. Ye could be getting paid one day and the next have a blade slipped in your ribs in the arena."

"Nice to know you're so concerned about my well-being," I say, raising an eyebrow at Pash with a bit of a grin. I trust the man about as much as I trust a snake curled up in my driver seat, but I've worked with far worse people.

I squat down next to the pot of spices. I replace the lid and latch it in place before lifting the pot and carrying it to the open passenger door of my car. Keeping tabs on Pash out of the corner of my eye, I set the pot next to the remaining barrel of guzzoline. Then I quickly check to make sure the half-lives didn't put anything unsavory in the back of my car. No way I'm about to have another close call with a knockout gas grenade. Satisfied that everything is as it should be, I unfold the passenger seat and shut the door.

"Pleasure doing business, Pash," I say, turning back the man and giving him a nod. "But I think it's time for this barbarian to pay Caesar a visit."

"Good luck," he says with a toothy grin. "Jus' be sure you watch out for the Mozzies. Dey like to hunt at night."

With that, Pash Rash turns towards the ambulance and starts shouting commands to the two half-lives as he pulls tools out to begin work on the vehicle. Despite Pash and his men's rough appearance, they seem to be confident mechanics. Their ambulance has been turned into a halftrack, with normal wheels in the front and treads in the back. The rear compartment has had the top removed, making it an oversized truck bed. Within are the four barrels of guzzoline, various tools, a few nitrous containers that don't appear to be connected to anything, and two spear guns with arcs reaching either side. When taking into account the armor plating made out of scrap metal - mostly the school buses' stop signs - I can tell this vehicle isn't fast, but it's very tough.

I look to the north, the direction Pash told me Caesar's land lies in. It's mostly empty desert, speckled with small mesas like the one here at the Skids. But far off in the distance, I can see what appears to be a small mountain range.

If I'm going to leave, I'd better do it now. The sun is setting, and it will be night soon.

I walk around the back of my car and get into the driver seat. I know I need to put some fuel in the tank, but I figure I can at least make it to one of the nearest mesas. I don't want to stick around the Skids any longer than absolutely necessary. With any amount of luck, nothing too dangerous awaits me at the mesa, and I'll be able to use it as cover while I fill up the tank. Then again, luck is about as scarce as trees out here.

I readjust my scarf so it wraps around my neck instead of just hanging off my shoulders. It's a miracle the thing isn't in tatters after all it's been through. There's little doubt in my mind that it'll outlast me, just like it outlasted its previous owner. Shoot me through the neck and I'm dead, but the scarf remains - albeit with a bullet hole and a good amount of blood on it.

I start the car and take one last look at Pash and his boys before turning my eyes and my tires North.

Time to go.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This story is taken from an email-based Mad Max RPG that a good friend and I have been playing together for the past two and a half years (and still going strong!). I have taken the emails and edited them into a more cohesive narrative with chapters for ease of reading. Chapter 1 is a little slow to set things up, but Chapter 2 picks up with some good ol' Wasteland action. Stay tuned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I drive away from the Skids, and it slowly fades into a speck on the side of a desert mesa. It disappears entirely as night falls. I feel the temperature drastically drop to near freezing over the span of a few minutes. It's a good thing I have the warmth of my car and my scarf to heat me up, otherwise I would've died from the cold long ago.

After about twenty minutes of driving, I finally approach the nearest lone mesa. It's nothing special - just sand and rocks, completely identical to everything else in the Wastes. This particular mesa is about thirty feet tall and completely devoid of any plant or animal life. However, I do notice one oddity: a lone tire leaning against a rock.

"Looks like a trap," I mutter to myself and my car as I cast a suspicious gaze on the tire. "Nothing's ever easy, yeah?"

I circle the mesa, looking for any places a person could hide. Someone could be camped out on top of the thing, but they'd be in severe danger of freezing up there at this hour. I don't think I'll be able to make it much farther without stopping to fuel up. If there is someone here, I'll just have to take my chances.

I really hate just taking my chances.

I pull up close to the mesa, far enough away from the tire to hopefully avoid trouble but close enough to keep an eye on it. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just an old tire. But 'maybe' isn't good enough.

I kill the engine. The quicker I can do this, the better - and not just because of the cold. I open the glove box and take out a metal funnel with a long, angled pipe at the bottom. Out of all the things I've ever managed to get my hands on out here, this one is probably the best. Besides my scarf, of course. I adjust the fabric so it covers my lower face against the frigid cold.

I exit the car, fold the seat down, and reach into the back for the barrel of guzzoline. I haul the thing out of the car and shut the door before lugging the barrel around to the back of the vehicle. I lift the license plate to reveal the gas cap. I unscrew it and insert the pipe so the funnel opens towards the sky. Then I remove the cap from the barrel and tip the heavy container up to begin pouring fuel into the funnel. It seems a painfully slow process, especially when I'm having to be constantly on the lookout for danger. My eyes keep flitting to the tire and then to the top of the mesa. I can't shake my paranoia. Sometimes I wonder if it'll save my life or get me killed.

My hands are stinging from the cold. I would kill for a pair of gloves.

Just as I finish filling my car and set down the large barrel of guzzoline, the sky above me illuminates a fluorescent red. I look up to see a large streak of red light dancing its way across the night sky from the top of the mesa. On a dark night, from such a high point, that flare can be seen for miles. It's a signal, but who's it calling?

My question is quickly answered when, far to the west, I see an orange flare go up like a firework. Several headlights appear and begin to move. To make matters worse, I look back to the mesa to see three darkly dressed figures rappelling down from the top.

"Typical," I mutter as I draw my pistol from its holster.

I don't want to risk trying to drive away just yet; they could climb onto my car as I start speeding away. No one touches my car. And as much as I hate using bullets… No one touches my car.

My fingers are almost numb. I aim my pistol as best I can at the figure on the right and fire. I hear a cry of pain, but the figure doesn't fall. Still alive, but hurt. Good enough for now.

I shoot at the center figure next. Nothing. I hear the bullet hit the rock.

"Damn it," I snarl behind my scarf.

The adrenaline is increasing my body heat, and a stinging burn now creeps into my fingers. I grit my teeth and fire again, determined to take at least one of them down before they reach the ground. I don't think I can take on three at once, and I don't want to try. It takes two precious shots, but at last the figure on the left falls and hits the ground. The thud echoes against the mesa.

I holster the pistol and take out my knife. No more bullets if I can avoid it.

The injured figure is moving a little slower, but the other one is nearly at the bottom. I rush forward, hoping to catch him before he can stabilize himself on solid ground. Just as both of his feet hit the dirt, I grab him from behind and slide my knife across his throat. He goes down without a sound.

I turn to the remaining figure, whose feet are now very close to the ground. He's struggling to pull a gun from its holster, and there's blood dripping down his arm. I lunge, pulling him from the rope and tackling him to the ground. Before he can react, I jab my knife into the side of his neck. Hot blood spills over my frozen fingers.

The headlights are much closer now. No time to search the bodies, but I grab the weapon from the final man's holster as I get to my feet. I sheathe my knife, promising myself to clean the blood off of it as soon as I get the chance. I run to the rear of my car, remove the funnel, and replace the gas cap and license plate. Then I load the now much lighter barrel into the back, unfold the seat, and get into the car.

"Trap, see? What did I tell you?" I mutter to my car before the roar of the engine drowns me out.

I speed away from the mesa as quickly as my vehicle can go. Continuing north, I see the headlights turn to follow me. I'll try to outrun them and avoid wasting precious resources if I can.

I glance over the bandit's weapon as I speed across the Wastes. Now that I get a good look, I see it's not a gun, but small, collapsible crossbow. The thing is covered with crude carvings of what appear to be insects. Strangely, it's not loaded with a typical bolt, but some kind of modified syringe filled with a small amount of thick, dark liquid.

The vehicles behind me are slowing down, realizing they can't keep up. Just when I think I'm in the clear, I see a streak of green light in the rearview mirror. I expect a return flare from a nearby mesa at any moment, but nothing appears.

I'm closing in on a mesa to my right, and there's another one farther ahead on the left. The desolate rock forms suddenly come to life as three lights take off from each, heading in my direction. I'm almost immediately able to identify them as motorcycles, each carrying two people. They are most likely using crossbows loaded with the mysterious liquid. They are most likely using weapons loaded with the strange liquid. I eye the crossbow again. I've never been afraid of needles, but I can't say I'm fond of being injected with mystery drugs.

I keep one hand on the wheel and reach between the driver seat and the center console. My rifle is stashed there, down in a slot that stretches into the back and is covered by a floor mat. I pull it out and set it on my lap. Then I reach under the steering wheel and pull out another handgun - a revolver. Looks like I'm going to be using a lot of bullets today. Maybe Caesar will give me a good trade for the spices, but I'm not counting on it.

I check the guns to make sure they are loaded and ready for action. Still got a handful of shots left in my pistol, but I'll try to avoid using those all up in one night if I can. Once I'm sure everything is in working order, I bring the canteen up from under my seat and take a couple gulps of water before returning it. If I survive this, the first thing I'm going to do is clean my knife.

The group of motorcyclists on my right approach first. The riders are men wearing heavy, dark clothing that conceals their builds and faces. The men perched on the back are wielding long lances. As they approach, one of the lancers hurls his weapon at my front right tire with such force he loses his balance and falls off, causing the entire bike to tumble through the dark desert. I manage to turn sharply to avoid the incoming projectile.

The other two bikers easily swerve to miss their fallen comrade. They drive past me on either side. I glance in the mirror to see them cross behind my car and speed up to match my pace, driving alongside me on either side. Before I can swerve into them and take them out, the lancer on my left thrusts his weapon through the window, breaking the glass. The blade misses me, piercing into the passenger seat. The lancer struggles to keep his balance as he tries to pull his weapon free. I glance to the right; the other motorcycle's driver is aiming his crossbow at me through the space where another window used to be.

Fragments of glass lay scattered on my lap and around my feet. Pieces of my car. No one touches my car.

Focus. On the right. The lancer can wait.

I raise the revolver, but the man with the crossbow is already pulling his trigger. A syringe-bolt lodges itself in the side of the driver seat. I aim my gun at him as he starts to reload. I fire, and my shot doesn't miss its mark. The driver goes down, taking the bike and the lancer with him.

The lance that broke my window starts to move as the lancer finally yanks it free. Before he can pull it out of the car, I toss the revolver into the seat and grip the lance with both hands, using my knees to keep the wheel steady. I push the lance back out the window as hard as I can. The lancer doesn't let go in time. The force of my push sends the lance, the man, and the bike toppling over and rolling through the sand. I doubt the fall killed him, but telling myself it did makes me feel a little better. He touched my car.

The remaining bikers don't seem deterred by the failures of their comrades. They're speeding in from the left - three drivers and three lancers. Keeping my knees pressed against the bottom of the wheel, I raise the rifle and aim it out the driver side window at the closest bike. My shot misses the driver, hitting the lancer perched behind him instead. He drops off the back, but the bike and the driver continue towards me.

The lancer from the second bike prepares to throw his lance at my front tire, just like before. I fire at him, but I miss completely. The lance leaves his hand and collides with my tire. My knees can't keep the wheel steady as my car jerks sharply to the side. My head is knocked against the driver side door. The glass shards sticking up from the base of the broken window stab my arms, but they don't pierce the leather sleeves of my jacket. I manage to keep my grip on the rifle. I pull myself back inside the car, drop the rifle in my lap, and grab the wheel in both hands. I straighten out the car, but the jostling from the front left side tells me that the tire has been pierced. My head is pounding from slamming into the door.

Suddenly, a spear enters through the open window, piercing my right leg. A yell of agony rips from my throat, and I struggle to keep my foot on the gas pedal. I twist the wheel to the right, slamming my car into the bike and sending it tumbling sideways. The lancer lets go of the spear as he is thrown from his perch. He flies into the other bike, knocking it over as well.

The pain in my leg makes it hard to breathe, but I force myself to take deep breaths. The bikers must have moved to the right while I was getting control of the car. This is what I get for not paying attention. I shove my scarf into my mouth and then grab the lance with both hands. In one fluid motion, I pull it out of my leg and throw it out the window, biting down hard on the scarf to stifle another cry. I feel my right foot letting up off the gas pedal, so I quickly replace it with my left. It feels awkward, but I can't afford to slow down now.

The driver of the only remaining bike has positioned himself in line with the broken window and is reaching for his crossbow. I grab the revolver from the passenger seat and aim it at him. Before the man can shoot, I fire a shot into his arm, then another into his head. He and the bike go down. I try to ignore the pounding in my head as I drop the revolver into my lap and press a hand against the hole in my leg. Blood oozes between my fingers. I spit out the scarf, grit my teeth, and keep driving.

With my front tire gone, my top speed is significantly reduced if I want to keep from wiping out. The area has grown quiet; no engines roaring, no gunshots, no shattering glass. Just the pounding of my head from a possible concussion. What's worse is the gash in my leg. I spread my fingers for a second to take a look. It's a lot smaller than it feels; the lancer couldn't push the weapon in farther without losing his balance. But it will still get infected if I don't take care of it immediately.

I look in the rearview mirror. The headlights behind me are slowly getting closer. Four lights, but three shapes. There is another fight coming up since my car can't outrun them anymore, but thankfully I see no more flares. These bandits must just be a small band, made even smaller after my massacre of fifteen of their men.

Ahead of me, the mesas are getting more numerous and closer together. The terrain is also significantly rougher, making a transition from soft earth to rough rocks. It will be difficult to drive through boulders and uneven earth while fighting, let alone with an injured leg and head.

The sound of engines finally starts to form behind me, shortly followed by the hollering of an angry War Party. I look again, now able to make out the three shapes as two motorcycles - same as before save the lancers - and a large modified tow truck with four men hanging off the sides. Mounted on the front of the truck are three human-shaped sacks. They are going to catch up soon, but not before I hit the gravel.

I lean over and reach under the passenger seat. My hand is covered in blood from my leg wound, but I manage to grab hold of the small, metal box underneath the seat. I set in on my lap and open it up. Inside are some medical supplies - things I've scavenged or picked up from jobs. I don't have much time before I hit the gravel, and then I'll have to be on the lookout for rocks while I drive. The best I can do now is wash out the wound and wrap it up to stem the bleeding a little. It needs stitches, but that will have to wait until after this fight. If I even make it that far, anyway.

I tear the hole in my pant leg so I can access the wound easier. Then I grab the canteen from under the driver seat and take a roll of bandages from the box. I wash the wound with water as best I can, trying to use as little as possible. I hiss through my teeth as the water hits. I rip a section of bandage from the roll and stick it underneath the fabric of my pants to cover the wound. Then I wrap that section of my leg with more bandages to hold the smaller one in place. It really should go under the pants, but I have neither time nor coordination to do that right now. Once the wound is wrapped up, I put the medical supplies and the water away and focus on what's in front of me.

My car hits the gravel moments later. The rocks and boulders seem to grow bigger and more numerous as I go, and dodging them is even harder with a missing front tire. The War Party is close now, almost close enough to use the harpoons. My head feels like it's about to explode.

There's a cluster of closely grouped mesas ahead to the right, and I turn my tires that way. I might be able to get some cover. I'm nearly there when the motorcycles pull ahead of the truck and speed up to match my car on either side. They have the same crossbows as the others.

I drive between two of the mesas. There's little room for maneuvering, especially with the bikers on either side of me. The one on the right fires his crossbow, but the syringe-bolt sails through both windows and strikes the biker on the left right. He swerves into the rock wall and goes down. Before the biker on the right can reload, I veer to the side and slam him against the mesa.

Two down, one to go. But it's a big one, and it's about to fire harpoons at my car. I see an opening in the rock wall just up ahead - an alleyway in the space between the end of one mesa and the beginning of another. If I can just make it there…

One of the harpoons comes flying at my car from the truck, but it's just a hair too high. I hear it land on the top of my car and slide off with a terrible metallic screech that sends a shiver down my spine. The second harpoon gun fires, and this time the projectile slams into my rear windshield, shattering it, but the hooks don't catch anywhere. More damage. I grimace, forcing myself to focus through the anger. My vehicle is battered but still alive, just like I am. For now, anyway.

I swerve into the side alley, almost losing control of the car. This passage is even narrower than the other one, and it's also much shorter. In seconds, I find myself back outside the group of mesas. I veer to the right a little and ready my revolver. Moments later, the truck emerges, going full speed and pulling up alongside my car. I aim my revolver at the driver as our broken windows line up. I shoot and miss. The truck is starting to pull ahead, and my opportunity is going with it. I fire at the driver again. Another miss. I only have one shot left in the revolver, and the driver will be too far ahead by the time I take out my pistol. I fire one last time, and the driver slumps over. The truck careens to the side, colliding with the front of my car. Both vehicles spin out in the gravel.

My car finally comes to a halt in the rocks. Two men suddenly appear from the settling cloud of dust. As I reach for my pistol, a syringe-bolt embeds itself in my neck. Before I'm able to respond, I get dizzy, and my vision fades. I drop the revolver, which suddenly seems to weigh a thousand pounds, and collapse onto my steering wheel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

When I finally come to, I'm lying on my back on a hard surface. My body feels stiff; I've been here for a while. Bright sunlight stings my eyes, but I don't bother waiting for my vision to adjust. I need to move.

I try scrambling to my feet, but my arm pulls me sharply back to the hard earth. I squint as my vision finally begins to return. A short chain is wrapped around my wrist, looped through a small lock. The chain is attached to a circular piece of metal driven into the ground. I sit up and pull at the chain with both hands, but the thing doesn't budge. I reach for my weapons, but they're all gone. I'm unarmed and chained like a dog. Worse - I'm alive, and that can't mean anything good.

With my eyes nearly adjusted to the light, I'm able to scope out my surroundings. The ground drops out of sight a short distance from where I'm chained up. Bastards must have hauled me to the top of one of the mesas. Nearby are several small tents and some work benches surrounding a large fire pit. The tents are all decorated with skulls and other human bones. Several areas of the mesa are stained with blood. If that weren't grisly enough, the fire pit houses about ten burnt human corpses. No sign of my car anywhere.

It's then that my other senses start to return. The first is pain. My head is throbbing, and my leg hurts like hell. I check the lance injury and discover that it has been dressed properly with new bandages. Looks like they didn't want me dying too soon. Not good.

My hearing comes back next - the faint sound of someone humming reaches my ears. I whip around to see a dark figure sitting on a rock. It appears to be a man shaving his face with a bowie knife. He holds up a rearview mirror so he can see what he's doing. He is wearing dirt-stained jeans, large black boots, and a tattered t-shirt. His hair is short and black. A large pile of long, black hair is sitting on the ground in front of him. A heavy jacket that was probably once green but is now closer to black is folded beside him, next to a pump-action shotgun that looks well cared for. He is a very muscular man. His most striking feature, however, is the black eyepatch over his left eye. Before I can say anything, he speaks.

"Good," he says without turning his gaze from the mirror. His voice is deep and raspy. "I was starting to get worried you wouldn't wake. Don't worry about me, I don't bite much. Unlike the damn Mozzies that got you."

I stare at him sitting there, shaving his face without a care in the world. I brush my fingers against the stubble on my jaw, trying to remember the last time I shaved. I open my mouth, but it takes me a moment to force the words out of my dry throat.

"Where's my car?" I finally ask.

The man finishes shaving and tosses the mirror on the ground. He sheathes his knife in his boot. Then he leans forward and places his arms on his knees, looking down at me. The skin around his eye is wrinkled, and the corners of his mouth sag a little. It's rare to see someone this old still kicking out here. From what I've learned, most people don't live much longer than my age.

"At the bottom," he says, motioning his head towards the edge of the mesa. "But it is pretty beat up, and when I got here, the Mozzies were in the process of stripping it for scrap."

I scowl and clench my fists. I knew this would probably happen one day, of course. I couldn't outrun everyone forever; it was only a matter of time.

"It may take a while get it up and running," the man adds.

He pauses and reaches over to his musty jacket. He pulls a small, white object from a pocket and tosses it on the ground, watching it closely. I recognize it as a six-sided die. Gambler. Once it stops rolling, the man looks at me again.

"But I'll be happy to give you a ride to wherever you need to go. Provided you aren't a fucking savage."

I just blink at him for a moment. A ride? I've been through a lot of shit, but this is something entirely new. People don't help each other out here - not for free.

"I'm no savage," I eventually reply. I glance once again at the bones, blood, and bodies strewn about the campsite. Then I turn back to glare at the stranger. "But how do I know you're not?"

"You don't. But I am the man who patched you up and killed the angry ferals who planned on eating you." The man bends over to pick up the die. He rolls it between his fingers. "If you don't trust me for a ride, that's fine. I'll also help you fix your car until it's drivable, or just leave it to yourself if you prefer."

The man stands up and puts his heavy, green-black jacket on. He returns the die to one of the various pockets. On the left shoulder of the jacket is a patch of a flag: red, white, and blue in a criss-cross pattern. It's the flag of a dead nation; I've seen it before. It has a name that I can't recall right now.

"At the very least, I'll free you of your shackle so you don't have to gnaw your arm off like an animal," the freshly shaven man says, pulling a small a key from another pocket.

He takes heavy footsteps towards me, humming as he twirls the key on his finger. I scowl at him, feeling my body tense up in preparation for a fight. People eating other people? That happens all the time out here. But people helping other people for no reason? Now that's a rare thing. Rare and very, very suspicious.

"Your die tell you to help me?" I ask as he approaches. "Seems like a risky way to decide what to do."

"It did. I don't care much either way and can't make decisions for myself." The man's deep voice is monotone and has no emotion. "What's the worst that could possibly happen? I die? That's not much incentive to care."

He doesn't take out a weapon, showing no fear of a stranger in the Wastes. He finally reaches me and stoops down to unlock the chain. I ready myself, preparing to lunge if he goes for the knife in his boot, but he never does. There's a click, and the chain goes slack. I pull my wrist free and get to my feet, grimacing as the pain in my leg flares up. The man collects the chain and lock before standing. He's about a head shorter than I am, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in muscle. He turns and walks back to his rock.

"So anyway, guy," he calls over his shoulder. "What's the plan?"

I rub my wrist, trying to ignore the pain in my leg. It'll be a bitch to drive with it like this. I'll just focus on trying to walk with it for now.

What's more important is deciding what to do about this man. I don't trust him, especially since his attitude towards me could change with the roll of a die. But on the other hand, I'm as good as dead without a car. Part of me is jealous of this guy's decision-making system. Sometimes I tell myself that I don't care what happens to me - caring only leads to pain, I'll say. But try as I might, I can't quite let go of some things. As hellish as this life can be, it's the only one I have. And my car is the only car I have.

"If my car is in as bad shape as you say, I could use a hand fixing it up," I say after a moment. "But I don't wanna see you rolling that die to decide whether or not to kill me while we're working, yeah?"

"I don't kill unless I get attacked," the stranger states, grabbing his shotgun and slinging it over his shoulder. He hangs a bandolier of black shotgun shells across his chest. Then he looks around the camp for a moment, again showing no expression. "And after killing these Mozzies, I decided to check out their camp to see if I could find some scrap. Then found a survivor - a prisoner - and decided to help. Helping you is no setback unless you turn on me."

With that, he reaches into one of his pockets and produces a small box. From the box, he pulls out a small, white tube - a cigarette. He places the cigarette in his mouth and lights it with a rusted lighter from yet another pocket. He seems completely relaxed. Maybe he's cocky, or maybe he's just that good. He did kill a whole camp of Mozzies by himself, after all.

"But if you don't trust me, I'll leave," he adds as he begins smoking. "I really don't care. I'm going to go see Anuket for work after this anyway."

"Fine, let's get to work, then," I say. "Who's Anuket?"

"Anuket is one of the Gods the locals here in the Caesar's Empire worship." The man pauses and takes a long drag from his cigarette. "Of course, they aren't actual Gods. Just powerful people with an ego in control of a resource."

The man walks towards the opposite end of the mesa. I follow, trying not to limp. I glance at the tents, looking for any surviving Mozzies. All clear. It suddenly occurs to me that I never thanked this guy for helping me. I'm out of practice with thanking people. I doubt he cares, though. He doesn't seem to care about many things.

"Anuket is the Goddess of water and agriculture," the stranger continues as we walk. "Her city is in the middle of an oasis, and I do work for her every few hundred days for weapons and tobacco." He takes one last drag of his cigarette before stomping it out on the ground. "Fucking bitch, though. She took my eye."

He reaches the edge of the mesa and kicks a coiled rope off the edge. The end of the rope is tied attached to a metal loop in the ground, similar to the one I was chained to.

Seems Pash was right about being able to get work from Caesar or in one of his cities. Judging from this well-equipped man, it doesn't seem like a bad idea - except of course for the possibility of losing an eye or worse.

"After you," I say, gesturing to the edge. Can't have him cutting the rope in me when I'm climbing down. He might trust that die, but I don't trust him. "You're one of the so-called barbarians that do work in Caesar's cities, yeah?"

"We are all barbarians to him," he replies, grabbing the rope and lowering himself over the edge. "Anyone who isn't native to the Capitol is a barbarian. Crazy bastard is up on his high horse, that's for sure. But he gives outsiders the _privilege_ of doing dirty work for him. The Gods do the same but have a pretty bitter rivalry between each other so tend to pay competitively to try and outdo each other."

With that, he slides down the rope and lands quite easily on the ground. I follow him down much less gracefully. At the bottom of the mesa, I see a handful of vehicles, one of them mine. It was a small car to begin with - slim, only two doors, low-riding - but it looks even smaller now. The front is pretty thoroughly smashed from the collision with the truck. The front axle is bent; the wheels sit at harsh angles. Any remaining windows have been shattered, and the front windshield is severely cracked. The tiny patches of red paint have been scraped off. I get closer, circling around to the front. The hood has been pried completely off, revealing the engine and interior parts, which are in various states of damage and disassembly. It looks fixable, but it'll take time and parts. I almost wish the stranger had left some Mozzies alive so I could kill them myself for what they did to my car. But I know it would be worse, so much worse. I place a hand gently on the cracked windshield. Battered but alive, just like me.

Next to my ride are four twisted motorcycles and the tow truck. The front of the truck is lacking the human-shaped sacks, but the grill is bent and caked with dry blood. The hood is propped up; tools are scattered around. Another vehicle is parked nearby: a rusty, armored van. There are metal bars welded across the front windshield and barbed wire spread across the passenger and driver side windows. The armored hulk's front has been fitted with a battering ram made out a large plow. Along the sides and top of the van are more strands of barbed wire to prevent people from climbing on it. Smart. This is a true Road Warrior's ride if I've ever seen one.

Without a word, the man walks up to the van, opens the passenger side door, and sets his shotgun on the seat. He then grabs a small bag of tools from underneath the dash.

"So I figured we might as well break down the Mozzie's truck for parts to patch up your ride," he says.

I nod in agreement, wondering if this man thinks I am a complete idiot for getting myself captured and my vehicle destroyed. It happens all the time to people out here, sure, but it probably doesn't happen to him very often. But at least I have both my eyes…

I sigh and open the passenger door. Time to see if the scavengers left anything for me.

"Hey, you happen to see any of my shit around here?" I call to the man as I duck inside my car.

"Yeah, just a sec," he says, placing the bag of tools on the ground next to my vehicle.

The stranger walks behind his van, and I hear a heavy creaking as he opens the back door. He rummages around for a little while; I can hear him humming over the sound of clattering metal. Eventually, he returns with a large duffel bag.

"Hope you don't take it personally when I say I took this in case you didn't make it or I had to kill you if you were aggressive." His emotionless, rumbling voice is so deep I can almost feel it more than hear it.

"Did you have the pot of spices, too? Shit's valuable out in the Empire."

"Uh, yeah," I reply, not bothering to hide my surprise. "Just got that from a job before I was attacked."

I'd asked him about my stuff, but I hadn't expected him to actually give it back. I figured he'd just say he didn't find anything, whether that was the truth or not. This guy showed up out of nowhere, saved my life, and offered to help me with my car. The least he could do for himself is to steal my stuff. It makes no sense to me.

I take the duffel bag and set it on the roof of my car.

"Surprised you even brought it up," I add, rummaging through the bag. Everything's there - weapons, canteen, funnel, medical supplies. "If it's so valuable, why not keep it for yourself? Why not keep all of this? Why give it back to me, huh?"

The man sighs heavily. Annoyance. The first emotion he has expressed since I met him.

"Because I rolled to help you," the man says as if it were a normal thing to say. "And I wouldn't be much help if I stole your stuff, now would I? You're paranoid - a healthy thing to be when you're a lone Road Warrior. But it is misplaced. We haven't started killing each other yet. That's a good sign." The man rubs a nick on his jaw from shaving. "I know it's hard to believe, but sometimes people do good things. Selfless things. I get nothing out of helping you, but I also lose nothing. I trust that you aren't going to kill me; you seem like a good kid. Just twisted by the Wastes. I don't blame you." The man starts walking back to his truck to retrieve the spices. "You need to hold onto your humanity, or you'll go insane. You'll end up like them." He points to the blood splatter on the back of the tow truck's cabin.

"All right, all right, I was just asking," I mumble. "Didn't need a lecture about it."

I glance the blood. It's hard to even imagine that those savages used to be regular people. I absent-mindedly fiddle with the scarf around my neck as I ponder the man's words. He trusts me not to kill him. I've killed a lot of people. Some of them I didn't want to kill, but it was necessary. Lots of things I do are necessary, or at least that's what I tell myself. I empty the duffel bag and return its contents to their places in the car or on my body.

"I've still got some humanity left," I say when the man returns with the spices. "Got a name, too. It's Roman. Pleasure to meet you."

"Yeah, I have one, too," he replies as he sets the container on the ground. "Call me Three." 

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has been checking out this story so far. Special thanks to reviewer Lewibaton and followers prettytightkid and SirReaper56. My co-author and I are really excited about sharing Roman's story with you all. Stay tuned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Three nods at me in greeting. No guarantee that's his real name, but it doesn't matter. I nod back. Then he climbs into the engine compartment of the Mozzies' truck and begins to take various components out. He works swiftly, appearing to know what he is doing. He clearly hasn't lived this long without learning a thing or two.

"You might think I'm a bit strange," Three says, pausing for a moment. "I haven't spoken to anyone other than ferals and cannibals in..." He stops to think. "About two hundred days?" Three wipes his brow. "That's a nice car. Where did you get it, anyway?"

"It's not much of a story," I lie, folding down the passenger seat. "I used to travel with a couple others a long time ago. Stumbled upon a little town of sorts one day, and they had this car. One of my companions really wanted it, even though we already had rides. But he wouldn't let it go. Threatened to kill us if we didn't help him. I guess being out here so long was starting to get to him."

I lift the container of spices and load it into the back of the car before continuing.

"Anyway, we killed everyone there and took the car. It wasn't easy; townsfolk nearly killed us. But in the end, my friend got his car. Soon as we were ready to head out, he killed the third member of our party. Out of nowhere, he just shot him. Tried to take me out, too. Shot my ear clean off." I scratch at the scar tissue where my right ear used to be. "So I killed him and took the car for myself."

I unfold the passenger seat and shut the car door before walking over to where Three is working. I try to limp as little as I can, but my leg hurts something fierce.

"Haven't traveled with anyone since. Just me and my car. Explains the paranoia, I guess."

"The Wastes will do that to a man." Three sighs, shrugging off his jacket.

I simply nod in reply, pushing the details of the story to the back of my mind. I don't want to think about it any more than I have to. Besides, it's time to get to work.

We spend all day fixing up the car. My engine block has bitten the dust - damaged slightly by the crash, but ruined by the Mozzies when they tried to salvage it. Savages. Luckily, the tow truck has a bigger, more powerful, and intact engine block that the two of us manage to jury rig up to my car. The axle is repaired, and the damaged frame and paneling is patched up with pieces from the motorcycles and truck. The car isn't pretty, but it is now more powerful and hopefully a little tougher.

The two of us are covered in sweat and motor oil by the end of the long day. The sun is beginning to set, turning the sky vibrant shades of pink and orange. I lean against my car and put my hands in my pockets, breathing in the rapidly cooling air. Three puts on his jacket and takes a long drink of a water from an old flask serving as a canteen. Then he pulls out another cigarette and beings smoking.

"Well… I believe my work here is done." Three holds out the pack, offering me the last cigarette.

"No, thanks," I say, waving it away. "Got enough bad habits as it is."

"I am going to Anuket for work," Three continues in his monotone, returning the pack to a pocket. "You are free to come with. Otherwise, I recommend going to see Thor. He values warriors and will happily give you work. If you tell him Three sent you, you get a better job. I'm well liked there."

I eye Three him carefully as he goes back to smoking. Hard as I try, I can't get a read on him. Thousands and thousands of days of Wasteland experience have turned him into an efficient, emotionless machine - or maybe he was always like this. Three and his truck appear to be much older than my car and I. Three easily has about four thousand days on me, I'd guess. Reaching adulthood is a challenge in itself out in the Wastes, but getting old is very rare. Even I'm probably a little above the life expectancy of adults out here by now - partially because I'm skilled in combat and survival and partially because I'm blessed with a lack of mutations or radiation poisoning. I have my birthplace to thank for that.

What I do notice about Three is the heavy bag under his sunken eye. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. He has at least been awake since I woke up this morning, but who knows how long he has been awake before that. He hasn't shown any signs of tiring out, though, and I'm more than satisfied with the work he and I were able to accomplish. He knows more about vehicles than I do, that's for sure. In fact, he seems to know a lot more about everything. If I stick with him, I might learn a thing or two about how things work in Caesar's Empire. On the other hand, I have no guarantee he won't lose his mind - if he hasn't lost it already - and turn on me. Rolling a die to make decisions doesn't strike me as all that sane. But he has no guarantee I won't turn on him, either. Even so, he seems to trust me at least a little bit. And I even managed to calm my paranoia enough to stop keeping an eye on his every move about halfway through the day.

It's not friendship - friendship is too trusting, too risky. It's just survival.

"Wouldn't mind going to see Anuket with you," I decide at last. "Been awhile since I got to talk to anyone other than my car, and it's not much for conversation."

"Then there is no point to wait around any longer," Three states, finishing his cigarette before climbing into the cab of his truck. "Grab any scrap or gear from around here that you want, then follow me. If we don't stop, we should make it to Anuket by mid-afternoon tomorrow."

"You got it," I reply, eager to leave Mozzie territory behind.

I grab the duffel bag from my car and make a round of the crash site, picking up things that had caught my eye while Three and I worked. There are few tools scattered around now mostly-dismantled tow truck, as well as a couple coils of rope and a fairly long chain. As I pull the chain from the truck and sling it over my shoulder, I notice part of the floor of the truck is sticking up in an odd way. I pull the tab up to reveal a hidden compartment in the floor, much like the ones in my car. Inside are more crossbows and syringe-bolts, as well as a few broken handguns and ammunition. I take the ammo for my pistol and revolver. I decide to grab some of the syringe-bolts, too. I already have one of the crossbows, after all - might as well have ammo for it. I can't think of a circumstance in which I would knock someone out rather than kill them, but they might still be good to have in a pinch.

I move to the front seats of the truck, moving quickly so as not to keep Three waiting. He doesn't seem like the patient sort. In the glove box is a half-full canteen of water. As I pick it up, I see something shoved behind it in the back of the glove box. I reach a hand in and pull the object out. It's a pair of leather gloves. In the glove box. For all the days I've been out here, I've never met anyone who actually put gloves in the glove box. I can't help laughing a little at the ridiculousness of it. I can't even remember the last time I laughed, and it feels damn good. Despite a rough start, this is shaping up to be the best day I've had in a while. I put on the gloves, already imagining how much easier night fighting will be without frozen fingers.

Seeing nothing else of interest, I return to my car. I sling the now-heavier bag into the passenger seat and drop the chain into the back. Then I get into the driver seat and start the car. The new engine roars to life, and I can't help but grin widely at the sound of it. I wave to Three, signaling that I'm ready to head out.

The engine of Three's truck sputters to life. A thick, black smoke bursts from the tailpipe as the vehicle takes off, kicking up a large amount of sand and dust behind it. The armored truck isn't nearly as fast as my car, and its acceleration seems far from spectacular. However, it looks like it's able to take a beating my ride would never withstand. I've always preferred speed to defense, but my run-in with the Mozzies has me thinking I might have to make a compromise. A little armor couldn't hurt.

The sky darkens as we head North towards Anuket's place. I've never worked for someone who calls themselves a God. Warlords, sure, but not Gods. Three mentioned that people worship her, but in my experience, worship is just a nicer word for fear. Either way, someone with a title like that has power, no doubt about it. Managing to keep control of an oasis is even more impressive. The city must be heavily fortified and have well-trained, loyal warriors.

I haven't set foot in a city in a long time. Large towns, sure, but never anything that could call itself a city. Now that I think about it, I don't think I've been in a real city since I started my days in the Wasteland. Before that...

There are times when I forget I have a history. Sometimes it feels like I've always been fighting to survive in the Wastes. Three's question about my car today brought the memories back. I tried to hold them back, but now that I'm alone with my car and my thoughts, they all come surging forward. When I try to picture what Anuket's city might look like, all I see is white walls.

White walls, white streets, white paint brushed on the buildings again and again. Everything was white in Utopia, and everyone in the city had a place. Organization, systemization, control, cleanliness - as the Sovereign commanded. Everything had to be perfect. If someone wasn't perfect, they were sold as a slave to the savages beyond the city walls. Utopian slaves were worth a lot, especially as breeders. They were traded for supplies: ammunition, weapons, vehicles - all things that could be sanitized. Outside food was forbidden. The Sovereign claimed it was all full of maggots and disease. The city farmers grew crops and raised animals, all of which had to be as perfect as the people.

There were many of us in the beginning. I was number 54 of my generation. I survived a plague that wiped out nearly half of us. I developed no defects, while others were sold before they could even reach Citizenship. By the end, there was only a handful of us left, and we were perfect. We were granted Citizenship and given names. Mend liked to name the Citizens of each generation after a subject in one of his books. My generation's Citizens were named after old, powerful cities, Mend said. He gave me the name Roman.

I was not yet old enough to produce children, but I was ready to learn to drive and handle weapons - standard training in case Utopia was attacked. I learned fast and got cocky. I had a bad habit of challenging older Citizens, and I often had to be sent to away for healing. Mend was the only healer in the city. He was a very old man whose poor eyesight would have gotten him sold years ago if not for his valuable knowledge about medicine and history. Like everyone in Utopia, he wore a white tunic and sandals, kept his hair cut at the shoulders, and shaved his face. Unlike other Citizens, his hair was pure white, and his skin was as wrinkled as the crumpled papers that filled his study. He spent his days reading, writing, healing, and training his apprentice. Simon was about a thousand years older than I was. He had the same brown eyes and I did, but his hair was a darker blonde. Mend had chosen him as an apprentice when he became a Citizen and wouldn't stop bothering Mend about what his name meant. He tried to explain it to me once, but I didn't bother to listen. That happened a lot. He would always try to show off what he'd learned from Mend and then glare at me when I got bored. Even so, listening to him and Mend babble was better than painting the walls white again out in the heat, so I didn't mind that much.

Hundreds and hundreds of days passed. My combat skills improved, and I stopped getting hurt so much. Eventually, I started training new Citizens. When they got hurt, I always went with them to see Mend so that I could spend some time with Simon. Despite our differences, we'd become good friends. He liked having someone to talk to besides Mend, and I liked avoiding work.

During one of my visits, Simon quietly told me that the plagues among the children were growing worse, so it was good that the members of my generation were just about ready to begin producing offspring. I was paired with a woman - I don't even remember her name now. We met only to try to produce children for the city, as was custom. Together, we were able to produce two children. Whether they survived to become Citizens or not, we never knew. More and more people were being cast out of the city each day. I once overheard Mend telling Simon that he feared for the Sovereign's mind. Our ruler spent most of his time inside the white palace walls now; his fear of catching some illness was stronger than ever.

I remember vividly the day when Simon told me that Mend had been sold. His eyesight had all but given out, and most of his knowledge had been passed to his apprentice. The Sovereign saw him only as a defective old man now, so he threw him away without a second thought. I'd never seen Simon so angry before. I thought he would have marched up to the Sovereign and slit his throat if he'd been able to get into the palace.

Simon and I left Utopia days later, determined to find Mend. Most of the people who left Utopia came crawling back soon after, only to be denied entry. Some of them went insane just outside the city walls; I could hear their screams in my sleep sometimes. I tried to convince Simon to stay. Without his medical knowledge, illness would run rampant. When I mentioned how many people would die without him, Simon said it was justice. Utopia was no longer a perfect place for Simon, and I wasn't about to let him go out there alone. We stole vehicles and supplies and left the city for good.

We found Mend's body the next day, propped up against a boulder. Beside him, a stranger was digging a hole in the sand. Simon threatened him with a gun, but the man didn't so much as flinch. He calmly explained he'd never seen a man that old before, and it had seemed wrong to leave him lying out in the sun. He also pointed out that Simon never turned off the safety on his gun. We were lucky to be alive, he said, and stupid for not shooting him on the spot.

The stranger's name was Cord, and he offered to teach us how to survive in the Wastes in exchange for some of our supplies. We helped him bury Mend and left the White City behind us.

One day, we saw an enormous cloud of black smoke rising from within the white walls of Utopia, far off in the distance. Cord whistled and said the slavers must have finally united to breach the city walls, but Simon and I knew better. Simon couldn't take his eyes off the smoke. He told me he hoped the Sovereign burned last and slowest, but I could see grief in his eyes.

Time passed. How much, I don't exactly know. Hundreds of days, maybe a thousand. Cord stayed with us all that time - said he preferred our company to being on his own. The three of us became a skilled team out in the Wasteland. We were good friends, too. Maybe that was why we didn't notice the signs of insanity until it was too late. Maybe we just chose to ignore them.

Like I told Three, the end began with a car - the car that I now drive. That day, Simon finally snapped. He said that we needed that car, that it was faster than our cars, that it would take us back to Utopia in time to save Mend and all the people there. The guilt over their deaths had slowly eaten away at his mind, I guess. For the first time since I'd met him, Cord looked sad. He knew what was happening, and he knew what had to be done. But I convinced him to do what Simon wanted for now. I didn't want to believe my best friend had lost his mind. I didn't want Cord to kill him. We could figure out what do after we got the car.

We never got the chance to figure it out. After we got the vehicle, Simon killed Cord right in front of me. Said he would have betrayed us soon anyway. I tried to reason with him, but that cost me an ear. Nearly cost me my life, but I'd always been a better fighter than Simon. Moments later, he lay dead at my feet.

I was alone after that. I took the car, leaving the bodies of my friends to be covered by the sand over time. I couldn't even bury them. I just drove away as fast as I could. I went from town to town, doing jobs for people who had things I needed. I never stayed in one place too long, and I never agreed to travel with anyone.

And now here I am, traveling with a man I just met. Why did I agree to go with him? Maybe it's because my brush with death shook me up pretty badly. Maybe I just miss having someone to talk to. Maybe I'm finally losing my mind. I tell myself that it wasn't Simon I killed. Simon died the moment he lost his mind. The last thing I need is for guilt to drive me mad, too. But maybe it wasn't just that with Simon. The Sovereign was going mad, too, wasn't he? Maybe there's something about Utopian blood - something not so perfect after all. The thought of insanity terrifies me, but at the same time, I feel that it's almost inevitable. How can I hold on to my humanity in a place like this? It seems impossible. Maybe I'm traveling with Three so there'll be someone there to kill me if I lose my mind.

There's a part of me that wants to just turn the wheel and go my own way. It would be so easy to just leave. I doubt Three would come after me - unless his die told him to, of course. Then again, it's only one job, and it'll likely be over quickly with the two of us working together. After that, I'm free to be a lone Road Warrior once again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The night goes by quickly as I think about my new, unsteady alliance and my past. Other than a few pairs of distant headlights around midnight, we spot nothing of interest. The gravelly terrain changes back to sand, and no more mesas dot the landscape. The sun rises over a featureless horizon. I remove my gloves as the desert air heats up, but it doesn't seem as hot as usual today. Still far from ideal, but it's a good day for the Wastes.

The first half of the day passes uneventfully. Then, as the sun nears the center of the sky, a small mountain appears on the horizon directly ahead of us. When we get closer, I see a cliff jutting out from one side of the rock. On the cliff is a small city of what appear to be real buildings, though I can't tell what they're made of yet. Areas of green poke out between the structures. Nestled at the base of the cliff is a sprawling ghetto of what looks like huts, tents, and vehicles. The most striking part of the scene, however, is a small but steady stream of water pouring down from the cliff-edge. With access to that much water, it's no wonder the ruler developed a God complex.

Three's truck slows to stop, but he doesn't cut the engine. I brake to a halt as the old man steps out of his vehicle and approaches mine. He isn't carrying his shotgun or any other weapons, likely to avoid making me think he is attacking. He steps up to my car slowly and speaks through where my window once was.

"Those are the great cities of East and West Eden," he explains in his deep, emotionless voice. "Ruled by the Goddess Anuket, who is the God of water, agriculture, love, beauty, health, nature, peace, bein' a cunt, et cetera, et cetera."

Three stares out at the twin cities for a moment, lost in his own thoughts.

"Now, I am a sanctioned MFP officer." He again pauses, then looks down at me. "Which is basically a legal Road Warrior who is neutral of the warring tribes and cities. There is some semblance of law out in these lands. So because of that, we don't need to worship and grovel at Anuket's feet like a layman would be expected to. Nor do we need to recognize her divinity. But we still need to be polite, or she will gut us. Ma'am, Lady, Great Anuket - whatever. Just be polite and show some humility. Just know that you are with me, and Anuket is in control here. You are free to leave any time before we actually hit the city. Do you have any questions before we continue?"

I've never heard him talk so much, and I need a moment to take it all in. I've never heard of MFP before, but I know Road Warriors. I've been called by that title many times; any lone driver with a scrap of skill counts as a Road Warrior these days. Cord told me it used to be the title of one man, some legend, but he's long gone.

I glance ahead at the cliff and its two cities, wondering if the walls will feel like home or like they're suffocating me. Maybe a bit of both. What I'm more concerned about is Anuket. I've never talked to someone who thought they were a God before. It seems silly to me. That's probably something I shouldn't say to her.

"If you don't mind my asking," I say, turning my gaze back to Three. "How'd you lose your eye? I'd like to avoid having that happen to me."

Three takes a deep breath. I notice a slight stubble growing on his face since shaving yesterday morning. I should shave my chin soon, too. Can't stand how it feels on my face.

"It's a pretty long story that has it all: intrigue, love, despair, adventure. I'll spare you the details and give you the short version." Three closes his exhausted eye for a moment before continuing. "Basically, I got caught fucking one of her Handmaidens. Anuket's Handmaidens are apparently sworn to celibacy. She was furious with the girl, so had her killed as punishment. My life was spared since I was needed, but my punishment speaks for itself. Pretty mild for her, actually."

I don't know what 'celibacy' means, but I still get the point of the story. I wouldn't have pegged Three for the romantic type; but then again, fucking doesn't have to be romantic - or even productive. Cord once explained to Simon and I that people sometimes do it for fun, not just to make children. I've barely seen any women since I left Utopia, let alone had time for fun of any kind.

"So, yeah…" he concludes. "Don't get any ideas about her Handmaidens."

"Right, I'll keep that in mind," I reply. Then I gesture toward Eden. "Shall we?"

Three nods and returns to his still-running truck. Our engines roar awake from their idle states as we once again take off across the desert. Not long after, we break out onto an actual road - a highway in relatively good condition for its age.

As we speed down the highway, two motorcycles approach from the city. I reach for my pistol and place it in my lap as the bikes get closer. Three hits the brakes and stops his vehicle, and I do the same. He doesn't get out this time, and I can't see what he's doing in his truck.

One of the motorcycles halts beside Three's vehicle. A shirtless, slightly muscular man with suntanned skin steps off and approaches the driver side window without drawing a weapon. I see his mouth move, but I can't hear what he's saying to Three over the noise of the other motorcycle slowing to a stop nearby car. This second man parks his bike and approaches me on foot. Like his partner, he's incredibly tan and somewhat muscled. His young face is entirely covered with black tar and elaborate, white markings that I don't recognize.

"What is your business in the Holy Cities of East and West Eden, the divine realm of our Goddess Anuket?" the man asks proudly.

It takes a lot of effort not to raise an eyebrow at the question, which sounds more like a proclamation. Good thing they have a lot of water here, or these heralds would have had their tongues shrivel up long ago from being so long-winded.

"I'm here with Three," I say simply, somehow managing to keep a straight face. "We here to do business for, uh, Great Lady Anuket."

The man frowns, looking visibly annoyed.

"Do you think just anyone can stroll into the Holy Cities of East and West Eden and demand to speak to our Goddess and protector Anuket? What do you have to offer her and her chosen people?"

Before I can reply, he opens his mouth again to start another rant.

"Chuckles!" his partner shouts, cutting him off. This man speaks calmly and with authority. "Relax. He is with the Cyclops. They may pass."

"The Cyclops is here?" the young herald, Chuckles, cries. "Well, why didn't you just say so, Blonde One?"

He backs away from my car and sheepishly kicks at the sand. The other man approaches my car. His face has the same black and white markings, but he is noticeably older - somewhere between my age and Three's.

"I apologize for Chuckles," the man says with a smile. "He is eager to bust heads for our Goddess Anuket. But we will happily escort you to her palace and see to it that you two get an audience."

Both men return to their motorcycles and take off down the highway. Three follows, and I fall in behind his vehicle. It's almost noon, and the temperature is still relatively cool. I wonder if the weather is always this nice near an oasis.

We slow our rides when we near the base of the cliff. The lower city, West Eden, less of a city and more of a large encampment full of small tents, cobbled-together shacks, and vehicles that double as homes. The upper city, East Eden, seems much nicer. I can tell even from here that that most of the buildings stand two or three stories high. They are carved from stone and decorated with polished metal. Tall, green reeds are visible around the top of the waterfall, which empties where West Eden meets the cliff.

Thanks to our escort, no one stops us as we enter the lower city on the highway. Crowds of scarred, mutated people wander about, doing business in what seems to be a large marketplace. Merchants in rags or scavenged clothes trade in food, scrap, water, weapons, and ammo. I spot a few selling slaves. More men with the same face paint as Chuckles and his partner keep watch over the masses. Law enforcement.

We follow the road into the center of West Eden, near the bottom of the waterfall. I can now see that the water spills into a chasm in the ground. Armed men patrol the edges of the pit. These guards are quite a sight to behold, strikingly different than the painted men in the marketplace. They are tall and extremely muscular, with all visible skin painted a dark green. Their heads are shaved, displaying several metal implants and ridges decorating the scalp and following the length of the spine. The wear armor made out of tires, and they carry various rifles that look reasonably well-maintained. One catches me staring and snarls, revealing a mouthful of sharpened teeth. I glare back before turning my attention to the pit itself.

The road passes right next to the chasm, and I lean over to glance past the edge. The water descends another thirty feet into the earth before splashing loudly into a sparkling pool. Ladders, ropes, and scaffolding cling to the chasm walls, where several men and women in sheer, white robes climb up and down with buckets. Clean clothes and no visible deformities or injuries. These people are clearly of a higher class than everyone else in West Eden. My mouth feels extra dry from staring at all the water, and I take a quick drink from my canteen as we leave the pool and its strange guards behind.

We finally reach the base of the cliff, which has stairs carved into the face. Nearby are dozens of small, fenced-in cages, most of them occupied with cars. Some of the vehicles are being worked on by mechanics with the same outfits and markings as Chuckes. Three backs his truck into one of the cages as the motorcyclists and I come to a halt. Chuckles gets off his bike and approaches my car, frowning.

"You can park your wheels in one of those cages; they will be safe. It is the Blackthumbs' holy duty to guard all vehicles that take shelter under the waters of Anuket's glory," he says proudly. "I shall travel up to East Eden to tell our Goddess Anuket that the Cyclops and the Blonde One wish to speak to her glory. Until I return, you are free to trade, explore, observe, or just tune your wheels."

As Chuckles scurries away toward the steep stairs, I drive my car into one of the empty cages and kill the engine. I look to where Three is now parked. He is leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest and his eye closed. He is apparently comfortable enough here to take a nap. I'd feel a lot better if he'd stay awake and keep an eye on the vehicles, but he did look like he could use some rest. He said he's done work here before, and he's clearly someone who cares about his vehicle, so I suppose it would be all right to leave my car here for a while. Besides, I'm itching to explore the lower city. I'll probably hate it - too many people, too much noise - but it's been so long since I've been in a big city that I just can't resist.

I make sure my equipment is safely hidden away before I grab the spices from the back and leave my car in the cage. I walk along the road and into the lower city, feeling the eyes of the armed guards on me as I pass the chasm. I don't bother trying to get a closer look at them or the pool. I enter the main part of West Eden, and suddenly there are people everywhere - shouting, pushing, trading, coughing, shuffling through the market. It's almost overwhelming. I haven't been around this many people in a very long time. Back then, though, I wasn't a stranger; I was part of the crowd, and it was a lot cleaner and more organized than this.

I make my way towards the nearest merchant who doesn't look busy with desperate customers. Maybe he can give me an idea of what these spices are worth. I've done some trading in smaller towns, but never with anything like this. Seems like an odd thing to value - what's the use in making food taste better if there's barely any food to begin with?

The merchant is cleaning out his fingernails with a large knife. His feet are kicked up on his table, which is covered with firearms, ammunition, tools, various fruits and vegetables, and rusted cans of pre-war food. The man has deep scars on the right side of his face and smaller scars almost everywhere else. His face is weathered, making it impossible to tell how old he is. A purple and white bandana covers his head, with a pair of goggles resting on top.

"Uh, hello," I say, stumbling over the simple greeting. It's been awhile since I've tried to start a normal conversation with someone. "Looking to trade these spices. Heard they're worth something here."

The merchant stabs his knife into the table and peers up at me. The scars on his face pull his upper lip into a permanent sneer.

"Oh yeah, stranger. Spices are practically currency out in Caesar's Empire," the merchant replies. He pronounces each word precisely, like he's making sure everything he says sounds perfect. Good voice for a salesman, but I wouldn't want to talk to him any longer than necessary. "Eden is the center of agriculture, though, so you won't get as much as you would in Ashtown or something, but we can still work something out."

The man reaches for a cane topped with a billiard ball leaning against his table. He stands slowly and carefully, revealing a suit covered in crisscrossing purple and white stripes. It's dirty and tattered, but it still stands out from the grey and brown rags of the lower city folk. He makes a struggled bow in my direction.

"So, stranger, what are you looking for? I probably have it if it's not already on the table."

The merchant is set up outside of a large van that no doubt holding the rest of his wares. The vehicle has few modifications and no armor or weapons - clearly not meant for fighting. A healthy-looking man leans against the side of the van and watches something cooking in a pot over a small fireplace. This man has tousled, light brown hair and looks to be about my age. He wears a black, leather jacket over his muscled frame, and a handgun is holstered on his hip. Some type of bodyguard for the merchant. Makes sense; a vehicle like that isn't going to defend itself. I turn my attention back to the merchant.

"My windows got busted the other day," I reply. "You got anything I can use to cover 'em? Some mesh or something? Barbed wire, too. And food's always good," I add, getting a whiff of whatever the bodyguard is making.

"Hey, Rhodes, what are you cooking?" the merchant calls to his bodyguard.

"Carrot stew," Rhodes answers without looking up.

"Would you be willing to sell some to this kind gentleman? He has plenty of Imperial spice."

"Sure." Rhodes pauses for a moment to think. "A cup of spice for a couple bowls."

"Excellent." The merchant smiles, but it looks more like a grimace thanks to his scarred face. "As for mesh and barbed wire, I have about four feet of barbed wire right here." He pokes a coil on the table with his cane. "But I am not sure what I have for mesh. I'll check the van. Be right back. Enjoy your stew."

With that, the man turns and opens the rear doors of his van. He steps up and walks through the veil of curtains that hide the interior from curious eyes.

Rhodes finally moves, pushing himself away from the van and approaching me.

"Let's see the spice," he says.

"Why exactly is this stuff worth so much?" I ask as I pull the lid off and hold the container out so Rhodes can see."Doesn't seem very useful."

"How can it not be valuable?" The bodyguard looks at me inquisitively. "Have you had food that was supposed to expire before the world fell?"

Before I can answer, he picks up a can off the table. There's a faded picture of a dog on the side of it.

"Here, this is on me. Try to get it down without salt or spice."

He pulls the merchant's knife out of the table and cuts open the can. Sharp fumes of rotten meat and something unfamiliar emanate from the thick, brown sludge inside. Rhodes holds out the can, and I set my spice down on the table so I can take it. I try not to breathe too deeply. The stench from the can is nearly enough to make me sick. I thought that after all this time, I'd be used to smelling and eating stuff like this. I guess it's just something I'll never quite get used to.

"It is absolutely disgusting," Rhodes mumbles. "But in some less developed areas of the Wastes, it is all they have access to. But here, they have crops and vegetables - the only city I have ever seen to have them."

The bodyguard pauses and leans down to take a deep breath of the spices.

"This is pretty good quality, though. Where did you get it?"

"Did a job for a guy down south. He threw this stuff in as part of my reward. Told me it was valuable up here," I say with a shrug. "So here I am."

"Hmm…" Rhodes hums to himself. "Interesting. If you want to get the most out of it, go somewhere that doesn't have an abundance of crops."

The bodyguard steps back to his soup and begins scooping some into a bowl. It's really just a hubcap bent into the shape of a bowl, but it works. I stuff the can of old food into my jacket for later as he brings the bowl to me.

"There you go, Blondie. Just lump your payment for it with Yale for whatever you end up buying from him."

As Rhodes returns to his small fire, I take a gulp of the hot soup. It's the best thing I've tasted in a long time. I'm about halfway through the bowl when the merchant, Yale, steps out of the van with a spool of some sort of wire.

"I don't have any mesh," Yale says. "But I do have this spool of chicken wire. Will that suit your needs?"

"That should work just fine," I reply between mouthfuls of food.

I briefly wonder if I should give some soup to Three for all the work he did on my car, but that thought quickly vanishes as I down the rest of the bowl. Three can fend for himself.

"You said two bowls, yeah?" I ask, holding out the bowl to Rhodes.

"Mhm," the bodyguard grunts, walking over to take the empty bowl.

"You can take your payment after that," I say, turning back to Yale. "And while I'm here, anything you can tell me about Lady Anuket? Been awhile since I've come across someone so, uh, important."

"Well, as I'm sure you know, she is Eden's ruler," Yale begins, setting the chicken wire on the table before taking a seat. "How she came to power - I do not know the facts, only the legends. The legends that say she is a Goddess given human form. But if you are curious on her personally and how she rules, it can be summed up in one word: cruel. Anuket will deliver harsh punishment for the smallest slight, imagined or real - her favorite being removal of tongue and gouging of eyes. Never torture, though." He smiles his deformed smile again. "So I guess she has that going for her. Anuket can be benevolent, though, if she so chooses. Occasionally, the Great Lady will give residents of the lower city a taste of the small pampering the upper city receives. The Gods are fickle."

Yale fiddles with a small purse made from a burlap sack, scooping his spice payment from my container into it. Rhodes returns with the rest of my soup, and I eat it as Yale continues his description.

"She is also beautiful. Beautiful beyond measure. More perfect than the most expensive slave wife. The locals say her beauty can drive mortals mad with lust. And let me tell you," Yale chuckles, staring off at nothing in particular. "They aren't too far off."

"I see," I mumble, glancing warily upwards toward East Eden.

The more I learn about Anuket, the more I start to regret coming here with Three. Everything about her sounds horrible; even her good looks have a catch. The stuff about punishments and lust makes me think of how Three lost his eye. I wonder how long ago that was. Maybe back then he didn't know how extreme Anuket could be. Or maybe he just didn't care. Seems to me it could go either way. I scratch at the stubble on my face as I think. I hope I get a chance to shave it soon. I may be a Road Warrior now - a man surviving by the skin of his teeth and the roar of his engine - but I still hold onto some things from my past. In Utopia, everyone was cleanshaven.

"Sounds like I'm in for one hell of a time up there," I conclude, placing the empty soup bowl on the table.

I put the lid back on the spices and gather up the wires I purchased. Then I take a deep breath; the air doesn't seem quite so dry here, but the crowdedness of the marketplace is starting to get to me. Time to get back to my car.

"I'll try to remember how good that soup was," I call back to Yale and Rhodes as I disappear into the crowd. "Next time you see me, I might not have a tongue anymore."

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has been taking a look at this story so far. Special thanks this week to TheFirstStranger7 for the review and Lewibaton for the follow. Coming up next week: East Eden and all its green glory. Stay tuned.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

I wade through the throng in the marketplace and make my way back to the cages. As I approach, I hear shouting. I take out my pistol and quicken my pace.

Between a group of cages, four shirtless men with black and white face paint - Blackthumbs - are beating a skinny, old woman as she lies in a ball in the dirt. Three leans against the front of his truck and watches, looking unamused.

The four men notice me. They immediately stand at attention on either side of the moaning woman, forming the sign of the V8 with their hands.

"Guest of Anuket! We discovered this criminal attempting theft of your vehicle," one Blackthumb speaks up, kicking a small roll of tools towards me. "What is her sentence, friend of the Cyclops?"

I step forward, peering at the would-be thief. My eyes fall on the tools, and I stoop to pick them up. She must be crazy, trying to take off with my car right here in the middle of a fairly crowded place. Either crazy or desperate. Probably both. I feel uncomfortable. Not in the usual way - not the hot, dry, sand in my boots kind of way. I've gotten used to that for the most part. But now everyone is looking at me, waiting for me to speak. To pass judgment. I've done that plenty of times alone in the Wastes, but here it feels different.

Even so, some rules remain no matter the circumstance. I clench my fists.

"No one touches my car," I say to the woman. Then I glance around at the Blackthumbs. "I'll kill her myself."

"The Outsider has spoken!" shouts one of the men. "The criminal will be executed by the Blonde One's own hand!"

"Get up off the dirt, you filth!" another hisses at the old woman.

The thief slowly staggers to her feet as the Blackthumbs slither away. The woman has wrinkled skin, a frail body, and grey hair - one of the oldest people I've seen since Mend. The criminal's face is nearly unidentifiable as human - swollen, bloodied, and bruised. The rags she wears are old and tattered - even more than those of the many beggars and urchins in the marketplace. She stares at the ground, putting up no resistance to her imminent execution. That must have been beaten out of her.

The Blackthumbs stand quietly beside the cages, waiting for me to act. Three continues to look on. I stuff the woman's tools into my jacket; she won't be needing them anymore. Then I holster my pistol and take out my knife. No point in wasting a bullet. The blade still has blood on it from my run-in with the Mozzies, and once again I promise myself to clean it as soon as I can. I need to use it to shave, after all.

I approach the woman, examining her more closely. Her grey hair glistens in the sun. Her skin is full of spots - brown ones from years spent in the sun, purple ones from trying to shield herself from the beating. Her hands are worn and calloused, covered with the grime of a lifetime spent in the dirt. How she managed to survive for so long, I don't know. After so many years, I'd have thought she'd be more careful. But none of that really matters to me.

I grab a fistful of her hair. In one fluid motion, I spin her around so her back is to me and slide my knife across her throat with expert precision. Then I throw her back to the dirt and watch as the dry earth thirstily soaks up her blood.

The Blackthumbs cheer, clearly excited by the spectacle. Murder makes for fine entertainment in the Wastes. After they calm down, the apparent leader speaks up again.

"By our laws, Blonde Outsider, you gain possession of all the offender's possessions." He is speaking to me without directly addressing me. It's more of a proclamation than a conversation. "You have already taken her tools, and she owns little else." The man pauses to catch his breath, his voice starting to go ragged from the volume and tone of his words. "Except for her companion that we have detained."

He points to the far end of the cages. I turn and am surprised to see a dog sleeping, chained up to part of the fence. One of the Blackthumb underlings runs to fetch the hound.

"This animal is now yours. Do with it as you see fit."

I sheathe my knife and wait as the Blackthumb brings the dog over to me. It's a bit of a struggle at first; the animal seems determined to stay where it is and continue sleeping. Can't say I blame it for that. It tries to bite the man's hands a couple times. Once the dog is on its feet, though, it's happy to follow where the Blackthumb leads. As they get closer, I get a better look at the creature. He's scrawny, malnourished, and I can see his ribs through his short, sand-colored fur. He'd be tall enough to reach my waist if he stood up straight, but he walks with his head lowered, sniffing the dirt. Suddenly, his pointed ears stand straight up as he spots the body of his previous owner. When they reach me, the dog sniffs at the corpse as the Blackthumb hands me the leash.

I don't know much about dogs. Mend had pictures of them in some of his books, and rumor had it that there were enormous, white dogs that patrolled inside the palace of Utopia. One of the towns I once visited had some alarm dogs, and another place hired me to kill a group of mad hounds that kept attacking people. But I don't know anything about taking care of a dog. I'm sure it requires food and water - two things that are already hard enough to come by just to keep just one person alive. Then again, if that tattered, old woman could manage to keep him alive, maybe it wouldn't be so hard.

I pull at the leash a little, trying to get the dog's attention away from the dead woman. When that doesn't work, I step towards him and reach a hand down to grab the rope around his neck. He suddenly turns his head and snaps at my hand, barely missing my outstretched fingers. I yank my arm back. After that, though, the dog turns away from the corpse and looks at me, cocking his head to one side expectantly. His eyes are young and dark brown, just like mine. I straighten up and head towards my car. The dog walks beside me, panting in the heat. He starts sniffing the air, following a scent that leads him to my jacket. He jumps up to get a better whiff, making me stumble a little to one side. I stop walking and try to push him down, but he snaps at my hand again. Then he goes right back to sniffing at my jacket. I pat the pockets, looking confused until my hand hits something hard. I pull out the open can of old food with the picture of a dog on it. Of course. The dog wags his tail wildly, licking his chops. I don't look nearly as thrilled, trying not to wince at the stench. I set the can on the ground, and the dog immediately stuffs his snout into it, devouring the contents in seconds. Once he's done, he picks up the can in his teeth and looks at me, still wagging his tail. An odd creature, that's for sure. He's lucky I got that food for free.

I lead the animal to the cage with my ride in it. He immediately lies down in the shade of the vehicle, dropping the empty can between his paws and resting his head on it. As the fanatical mechanics clean up the corpse of the old woman, Three approaches me.

"You sure put on a show," the Cyclops comments in his usual gravelly, monotone voice.

I sneer a little at that. I took care of a problem; wasn't my fault people treated it like some spectacle. I glance at Three, trying to read him but finding it impossible. His face and his voice give nothing away, and I'm sure that's no accident. I decide to let his remark go, though. I don't really care about the opinion of a man who can't make decisions without rolling a die.

"Anyway, a Blackthumb told me he announced our arrival, and Anuket will see us shortly," Three grunts. "We are to meet an escort at the base of the fall." He glances the dog, who is yawning in the shade. "What are you going to with that thing? A mutt can help if you train it right, but it also eats up resources."

I look down at the dog, who is already half asleep on the ground. Lucky bastard.

"Think I'll keep him," I reply, ducking into my car to hide the newly acquired tools and wire. "If he gets to be more trouble than he's worth, I'll get rid of him. Simple as that."

Three doesn't respond as I shut the door and tie the dog's leash to the side mirror.

"You, uh, stay here and look after my car, yeah?" I instruct the dog, whose only response is to blink up at me with sleep in his eyes. I shrug and turn back to Three. "Let's go see this Great Lady."

The Cyclops simply nods and turns away from the cages. I follow him down crude, scrap metal stairs leading to the cliff behind the fall. The whole path is occupied by Blackthumbs - not a ragged urchin in sight. In the hierarchy of this city, it's obvious that the mechanics hold a higher status than the masses. Outsiders like myself appear to be regarded at about the same level as peasants, seeing as how they tend to all be located in the lower city. I'm only an exception since I'm here with Three, who claims to be an MFP Officer, whatever that means. There are two other groups I've witnessed, but I haven't seen enough to gauge their importance: the white-robed people of the water pool and the large men with tire armor. The robed men and women are possibly members of the upper city or some kind of religiously important figures. They remind me of Utopia, of course, where everything was white. The enormous, armed men are unlike anything I've ever seen, though. They're military, I'm sure, but why they have sharpened teeth and metal ridges implanted in their skulls is beyond me. They're intimidating, to say the least, but they're equally as fascinating. West Eden and its marketplace felt a lot like some of the towns I visited on my travels - full of poor folk trying to get by, just like me. These people, on the other hand, are something else.

My thoughts disperse as we reach the chasm at the waterfall's base. I am nearly overwhelmed by the smell of fresh water, and I can even feel small droplets splashing on my face as we pass by the impossible output of liquid. I almost understand how people could worship a person who controls such a marvel. Almost.

I once again notice the steep, zig-zagging stairways on either side of the waterfall. At the bottom of the stairs closest to us are two of the armored soldiers. Three approaches them without hesitation. This close, I can see that they are impossibly tall, towering over me. They are also more muscular than Three. One is wearing a yellowed t-shirt under his tire chestplate. He has an expression on his face that I recognize: the thousand-yard stare of a man who has seen more than he would like to have seen. The other guard is shirtless under his armor. Through the strips of tire, I can see that his torso is covered with small, raised scars. The scars are obviously done on purpose - hundred of small, uniform dashes, giving his skin a similar texture to the tires he wears. I can't see his eyes through the red-tinted goggles wrapped around his head, but I imagine he has the same stare as his companion. Both guards have bits of metal purposely placed in their bald scalps; Goggles has three, and T-shirt has two. These implants are also in a neat row, with the steel bits in various stages of rust and scabbing. In each man's hands is an ancient, rusted-over assault rifle of some sort. The weapons are so old and beat up that I struggle to imagine them working properly, but their owners are so large they could easily just bludgeon me to death with them. Attached to the barrel of each rifle is a glaring contrast: an affixed bayonet that is shiny and well-kept.

"Three the Cyclops and his Blonde companion," Goggles booms. "You may enter the Holy City of East Eden. Our Lady Anuket is expecting you both. Your escort to her throne is waiting at the top of the stairs."

I manage to tear my eyes away from the terrifying guards and concentrate on not tripping up the stairs. As we climb, I find myself growing excited to see East Eden. The curiosity that I try so hard to keep at bay is bubbling up, and that's always risky. This isn't Utopia, where everyone is perfect and everything is clean. Here, only one person is perfect - Anuket, the so-called Goddess. And from what I've learned, she isn't a very forgiving deity. I can't let my curiosity get the best of me in a place like this; it could get me in a lot of trouble.

 _And don't get any ideas about the Handmaidens,_ I remind myself, glancing over at Three.

We reach the top of the stairs. Green. Trees, grass, crops - the top of the cliff is filled with them. Even Utopia didn't have this many plants. The ground up here is actual soil - not lifeless dirt. It presses down under my feet like I'm stepping on a pile of cloth. It makes me uncomfortable, but it's worth it for the view. The green grows across the top of the cliff, which opens into a small valley. Parts of the mountain stretch skyward on all sides but the one we came from. A thin strip of oasis nestled in a mountain, high above the Wasteland. Maybe this place is closer to perfect than I thought.

Tending to the plants are men and women in the same white robes as those in the basin. They happily work, harvesting crops and watering plants farther away from the small river that feeds the waterfall. These farmers have no visible scars, mutations, or steel implants. The buildings are skillfully crafted out of brick, wood, stone, and metal. Most are two or three stories tall and completely undamaged. There is not a hint of violence or suffering up here. It's like being in a dream.

"Enjoy it while you can, Roman," Three says with a hint of wonder in his voice. "We won't be here long."

I look at Three, surprised by his sudden show of emotion, even if it's very small. He's seen it before, but the beauty of this place still gets to him. Must be why he keeps coming back even after what Anuket did to him.

After a few moments of trying to take it all in, I notice Chuckles kneeling on a nearby patch of grass. He stands up and greets us with a scowl.

"Cyclops, I trust you, but your Blonde companion here better know how to behave himself," the Blackthumb hisses quietly. "This is a peaceful, holy place. There shall be no violence." He pauses for a moment. "At the entrance of the Great Lady's temple, you will leave your weapons with a Crocodile. Instruments of War are not tolerated in Lady Anuket's presence."

"Uh... Yeah, of course," I say, realizing that he is speaking to me. It's hard to pay attention with so much to look at.

As much as I'm enjoying the serenity of East Eden, I can't help but feel a little uneasy about having to leave my weapons behind. I don't plan to attack Anuket, but having my knife and my pistol on me at all times is a comfort thing as much as a protection thing. At least I still get to keep my scarf.

Chuckles smiles for once, seeming to sense my uncertainty. "Our ways seem strange to outsiders, but they understand us a little better when and if they get the chance to visit here." The Blackthumb quickly notices his break in resolve and returns to a scowl. "Follow me," he huffs in his best tough-guy voice.

Our escort leads us along the river that cuts through the valley of East Eden. My boots squeak as they step across the soft, wet grass. I see more white-robed figures, but they ignore our party as they work. I also see more types of plants than I knew existed, as well as an animal. Roosting proudly on a crest of rock is a bird. Not the rare, nasty vulture from the Wastes; no, this bird is majestic, with white feathers and a seemingly happy expression - not unlike the residents of East Eden. Not a care in the world.

The short, silent walk leads to what is unmistakably Anuket's palace: a huge, female face, mouth agape, carved into the mountain. Not a single piece of scavenged material - all chiseled by hand. Its eyes feed the river from a source within the rock itself, making it look like the woman is constantly crying. A small bridge crosses one of the eye streams, leading to the open mouth that doubles as the palace's entrance. Two massive, wooden doors stand just beyond the mouth's lips, hiding the interior from view.

Guarding the passage are four of the scarred, armored men - Crocodiles. This time, each wields an intimidatingly large, well-maintained machine gun, with the long belt of ammo posing as a sort of rough, copper scarf. When we come within fifty feet of them, the two on the flanks drop to one knee and raise their firearms.

"Stop! Hands in the air! Inspection!" the pair in the center shout as they rush towards us, weapons raised with disciplined efficiency.

Chuckles and Three quickly raise their hands. I follow their lead.

"They don't mess around anymore," Three mutters.

"Our Lady is wary of the Blonde One," Chuckles whispers, eyes pleading to Three to remain silent.

The two monster-men reach us in seconds. Sunlight glints off something shiny, and I glance down to see that one of the Crocodiles has a metal leg. The shin is covered with a guard made of tire, matching his armor, but the rest is exposed metal and hydraulic tubes. Like his machine gun, the leg looks well taken care of, completely devoid of rust or dirt. He has no problem keeping up with his partner, making me think he's had the prosthetic for a while - long enough to train with it. The other Crocodile has all his limbs intact and looks almost identical to the one in the T-shirt at the base of the stairs. Then he opens his mouth to speak, revealing that his sharpened teeth have been replaced with metal spikes.

"Relinquish your weapons!" the two Crocodiles command in unison. "Place them on the ground! They will be returned upon your exit! Blackthumb!?"

Chuckles produces a small handgun from his waistband and sets it in the grass. Leg pats him down and nods to the Teeth.

"Cyclops!?"

Three pulls the shotgun from his shoulder and places it on the ground. Then he removes a handgun from within his jacket, grabs the other from his hip holster, pulls a combat knife from each boot, and a takes out the bowie knife from his jacket-mounted holster. Finally, he reaches into his left sleeve and pulls out a pair of rusted brass knuckles.

The two Crocodiles simply stare coldly as Three unpacks his mini-armory. The rear guards diligently look from a distance, never lowering their weapons. Chuckles watches with interest, and I raise an eyebrow. Guess Three didn't feel safe leaving all those weapons in his truck. I know how he feels. When he finally finishes disarming, Leg pats him down and once again nods to Teeth.

"Blonde One!?"

I lower my eyebrow and reach into my jacket to pull out the knife. There's still blood all over it, and I sigh inwardly as I set it on the ground. Then I place my pistol and revolver alongside it and look up at the Crocodiles. Leg begins patting me down. His massive, calloused hands are not gentle, nearly knocking me over. When finished, he nods to his partner. Simultaneously, they form a handsign to the two others, who lower their weapons and stand at ease.

"Chuckles the Blackthumb?" Teeth says. He speaks in a softer tone than earlier, but it still rings with authority. He has no speech issues from the metal in his mouth. I wonder if speaking is part of their training, too. Everything they do is meant to be as commanding as possible.

"That would be me, sir," Chuckles says as strongly as he can, but I detect a bit of terror in his voice.

"For your piety and dedication, you have been granted permission to enter and be in Anuket's presence," Leg informs him. I notice the lack of titles he uses for Anuket, meaning his station must be much higher than the Blackthumbs.

Chuckles's eyes light up. His mouth twitches as he desperately tries to hold back a smile. He forms the sign of the V8 with his hands.

"I thank you, sirs. But I am not worthy of the great honor of laying my eyes upon the Great Lady Anuket."

"Nonsense. She ordered it herself," Teeth replies. "Quit groveling, and don't prove her judgment wrong."

Chuckles immediately stops protesting and lowers his hands.

"Follow us, you three," Leg commands, quickly turning towards the entrance along with his partner.

As we walk toward the enormous mouth, the rear guards move forward to collect the weapons lying in the grass. I get a better look at them as they appraoch. Both are shirtless under their armor. One has a large, zigzagging scar that cuts through the raised, patterned scars on his torso. The other's chest is completely hidden underneath thick, curly hair. What he lacks on his head and face he more than makes up for on every other part of his body. His arms are similarly carpeted, making his already enormous muscles seem even larger. They pass us without a glance, completely focused on their task.

Leg and Teeth quickly make it to the large double doors and push them open in unison, revealing a dark hallway. The Crocodiles corral us inside. The doors shut behind us with a loud thud that echoes into the palace. Ahead is a short, dim hallway leading to a tall staircase with light seeping down from the top. Nowhere to go but up.

Time to see if this Anuket is anything like the stories.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Chuckles eagerly heads up the staircase. Three follows, seeming much less excited. I walk behind him, feeling my heart starting to beat faster - and it's not from the stairs. I've never liked meeting Warlords. Arrogant, brutish, often mad. Meeting a God seems like it'll be even worse. I tighten the scarf around my neck and brace myself for whatever comes next.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I find myself staring down a long, well-lit, stone hallway. At the end of the space, sitting on her throne with legs crossed, is unmistakably Anuket herself. The merchant Yale wasn't lying when he spoke of her beauty; it's the first thing I notice, and it takes me several moments to notice anything else. Even from this distance, I can see her bright, green eyes, which stand out against black eyeshadow. As we step closer, I make out more details. Woven into her long, braided, black hair are various leaves and berries from a plant unknown to me, along with colorful, ceramic beads She wears a sheer, white robe - completely see-through, revealing her well-toned body. Her skin is pale and lacks any kind of blemish. She appears to be rather young - about my age, maybe a little younger. None of the rumors or tales could have prepared me for seeing her in person. Even the women of Utopia - perfect women - pale in comparison.

I notice the Handmaidens kneeling on the dais, awaiting instruction. They are all gorgeous as well, but not rivaling Anuket. Unlike their mistress, they wear no makeup, decorations, or jewelry. Their hair is worn loose instead of in braids. Although they all share the uniform of revealing robes, each of the women is unique - not near-perfect replicas of each other like the women of Utopia. One is incredibly thin with pale skin and straight, blonde hair that nearly touches the ground where she kneels. Another had curly, red hair and green eyes; her hips are wide, and her white skin is covered in freckles. Next to her sits a dark-skinned, slightly heavier-set woman with wavy, brunette hair that just passes her shoulder blades. Another woman has an angular face, olive skin, and shoulder-length hair so black it glistens in the light. The final Handmaiden's skin is much darker than Anuket's, and she has freckles on her nose. Her eyes are a piercing blue that contrasts her dark brown hair. But what strikes me most is the look on her face. Eyes wide and childlike, not narrowed from squinting in the sunlight. Mouth soft and content, not a hard line. Innocence. That reminds me of the woman I was paired with to make children. It reminds me of Simon, before he and I left the city. It reminds me of everything in Utopia - perfectly peaceful. I must have looked that way once. But it may just be an act. A trap. I tear my eyes away from her and look back to the others. They all have the same expression on their faces. I tell myself it can't be real. No one out here is truly innocent.

Finally taking my eyes off the women, I examine the room. The hall is obviously carved into the mountain; all exposed surfaces are rough rock, but much of it is covered in moss. Lanterns suspended from the ceiling pour out light, which bounces off the mossy walls to give the room a green color. Hanging with the lanterns are troughs full of dangling plants. Two streams of water flow out from somewhere behind Anuket's throne, running down dual channels that no doubt lead to the eyes at the entrance and feed the river. The air is thick and has a mysterious aroma to it. I breathe deeply, taking in the odd smell. The air is almost… soft. Not abrupt like the hot, bone-dry air of the Wastes. It's even better than the crisp, clean air in the rest of East Eden.

"Well, Anuket, since you went through all the trouble of allowing me, a wild Road Warrior, and one of your Blackthumbs up here, I imagine you have a job for us," Three proclaims loudly as we near the dais.

"Your skills in perception seem to have improved," Anuket confirms, head held high.

She has an incredibly soft, pleasant voice - not what I expected from a ruler. She's like the air: soft. Her voice, her manner - it's not harsh or imposing. Three doesn't use titles when he addresses her, just like the Crocodiles. Anuket doesn't object, but she tilts her chin up. Her apparent friendliness may just be an act - a ploy to trick people into getting too comfortable. And when they slip up, the facade disappears - like soft sand suddenly blown away to reveal a snake about to strike. The only thing I know for sure about Anuket is that she is beautiful. It's intimidating to see someone so untouched by the horrors of the dead world. She's probably lived here her whole life - that's how she turned out like this. But somehow it seems to be more than that. Like she's… above the rest of the world. If anyone could pass for a Goddess, it's her.

But at the end of the day, she's still just a person. She certainly is powerful, but she's no deity.

Three opens his mouth to say something else, but Anuket quickly cuts him off.

"Three, you have proven yourself skilled and capable in the past, and I trust you to have only brought someone who could handle themselves to me. As for the Blackthumb, he was simply in the right place at the right time. So I offer the three of you of a job - price negotiable, as always. But first, I would like to know who I am dealing with."

Anuket's sharp eyes scan the three of us standing before her.

"Blackthumb, approach me," she commands softly.

Almost before she finishes her sentence, Chuckles surges forward. He kneels in front of her dais, bowing and making the sign of the V8.

"You wish to speak, Blackthumb?" soothes the Goddess, knowing the answer.

"Yes, my Great Lady Anuket," Chuckles blurts out.

"Then do so, but do it quickly."

"My Great Lady Anuket, Goddess of Water, you honor this toiler of engines by allowing me in your presence. I do not know what your Holiness has planned for a lowly Blackthumb, but I will do it with all the strength I can physically muster."

"Have you seen War?" Anuket snaps coldly, her gentle demeanor suddenly gone. I narrow my eyes. A trick after all.

"E-excuse me, Your Greatness?" Chuckles seems taken aback.

"Have you fought, been in combat, killed?" The Goddess simply stares down at him.

"It… it isn't right to speak of violence around the Great Goddess An- "

"I'm asking you a direct question." A spark of anger appears in her voice. Impatience.

"Yes, I have, My Lady," Chuckles stammers. Anuket stays silent, awaiting further detail. "Three. Three battles, My Lady. Two border defenses and a scavenging skirmish. A total of four of your enemies have fallen by my hand," Chuckles barely manages to say.

"Mediocre," Anuket states. "But as a Blackthumb, you aren't expected to be a warrior."

The power resonating in her voice never falters. Everyone in the room understands she is absolutely in charge. She uncrosses her legs and stands up, stepping off the dais. Her bare feet make soft patter on the hard stone as she gracefully strides toward Chuckles.

"As of this day," Anuket says, speaking directly to the Blackthumb as he kneels at her feet. "You are no longer a Blackthumb. You are relieved of your duty as a mechanic to these holy cities. You may now claim the title of Road Warrior. I shall wash away your mask of servitude."

With that, she bends down and uses two hands to cup water from one of the streams. She pours the liquid onto Chuckles's face. The young man keeps still, arms loose at his sides, not speaking for what feels like several minutes.

"T-thank you, My Great Lady Anuket," the former mechanic finally blubbers.

"Oh… dear Road Warrior," Anuket replies. "You should not be thanking me. I gave you a curse. Not a gift. Ask these two men right here. The Wastes are not as safe as my city. Even if you were not a half-life already, you may as well be one now. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me one day, but for now… your position is needed."

Chuckles says nothing. He struggles to rise to his feet.

"I am finished with you, Road Warrior."

After a brief pause, Chuckles turns around and returns to stand beside Three and me. The black and white facepaint has been completely washed away by fresh water and tears of joy. Part of me wants to be happy for him. I haven't known him long, but he seems like a good man. To see him - hell, to see anyone - in this miserable world be happy is a welcome sight. But Anuket's right: it's a curse. He's not so sheltered as I was when I set out into the Wastes, but he's still got a lot to learn, and he'll likely learn it the hard way.

Anuket returns to her throne. The short, elegant walk somehow looks more powerful than the disciplined sprint of the Crocodiles. Everything about her shows pure confidence and authority - a strength unmatched by anyone but a Warlord.

"Blonde wanderer. Approach me."

I suddenly find myself wishing I had asked Three more questions about how to act around Anuket. Three talks to her almost like they're old friends, and Chuckles couldn't grovel any more if he tried. In the end, I decide to go for a sort of middle ground. I step forward and give a half-bow. I've never bowed before. It feels awkward, like sort of a low nod, but it's the best I can do. Hopefully, it's good enough for her, or I might never bow again.

"Lady Anuket," I manage to say.

The silence seems uncomfortably long, though it can't be more than a few seconds. I can almost feel her sharp eyes burning through my skull.

"I see the beast has manners," she finally says. "What shall I call you, Blonde One?"

I raise my head a little to look up towards the throne. Under the weight of her unflinching stare, it's impossible to tell if she is amused, insulted, satisfied, or something else. Despite the pleasant air, my throat feels as parched as a skeleton left out in the sun. I grit my teeth for a moment, determined not to show weakness in front of her.

"My name's Roman, Lady Anuket," I reply through dry lips.

Anuket frowns slightly, appearing to be mildly displeased with the response.

"Very well… Roman," she says, returning to the blank but fierce expression that perfectly hides her thoughts. "You are a Road Warrior, correct? Otherwise, I'm sure Three would not have brought you. Tell me of your exploits." She shifts slightly on her throne. "Don't be shy about it."

I hesitate for a moment, unsure how exactly to start. I don't want to go into too much detail. I don't like people knowing too much about me, not even Goddesses. But she wants to know what I can do - if I'll be useful.

"I am a Road Warrior, yeah," I begin. "Didn't start out that way, but I learn fast. Used to travel with two others, till one went mad and killed the other. This was after we'd massacred a whole town to get a ride. I killed the mad one and took the car. Been alone on the Road ever since, mostly doing jobs for folk in towns. Sometimes they're little ones, like bounty hunting. Brought in a man just a few days ago, easy going. Other times, things get complicated. I once ended up with a little War Party on my back, but I outdrove them after a good fight. My car's fast, and I know how to handle it." I pause and take a deep breath. "Been in plenty of scrapes since I set out. One thing they have in common is that I survived all of them. I can get a job done."

"You killed the mad one…" I hear a hint of something in her voice, but I can't put my finger on it. Whatever it is, it's not good. "You are a Road Warrior. You killed a whole town and your two allies for a car. You kill for hire, you loot corpses. You are missing an ear. You are suffering a major wound to your leg that needs tending. In the past two days, you have been drugged, stabbed, shot at, and tied up. You work with a man you just met that you don't trust. You come to me, a ruler you have heard nothing but horrid things about. You have heard my cruelty. You fear me. You know you should run."

She pauses, appearing lost in thought for a moment.

"Yet here you are," she continues, regaining focus. "Bowing before me, willing to face death itself for an unknown material gain. You follow the path of the Road Warrior, a life choice that has made corpses of those just like you. I know you are capable; you defeated two Mozzy War Parties by yourself. But have you ever stopped to think that if madness and War follow you, _you_ may just be the mad one?"

In a truly terrifying display, Anuket smirks. It is beautiful and unnerving all at once. She quickly hides it.

"The truth is that you love this, don't you? You love murdering your way down the rabbit hole that leads to your glorious demise on the Fury Road. You know you going to die in some grisly fashion someday, but you wouldn't have it any other way."

Her tirade hits me like a sandstorm - sudden and harsh and downright frightening. She's right about me fearing her. Who wouldn't? But despite that fear, I find myself clenching my jaw in irritation. She thinks she knows everything about me. How she knows anything at all, I have no clue. But she doesn't know everything. She wasn't there when Simon finally broke. She didn't see the look on Cord's face when he fell dead. She doesn't know anything about me.

"Everyone who lives out there is mad, Lady Anuket," I reply, returning her cold stare and trying not to let any of my anger show. I don't think it works. "Gotta be a little crazy to survive in this world. If I tried to take the moral high ground every time, I'd've been dead a long time ago. I do what I have to do, and I try not to think about it too much. But you're right. When my time comes, I'd like to go out with a bang. Lot better than just withering away in the sun. If that makes me a madman, then that's just fine."

Anuket doesn't seem fazed by my remarks. I wait for her to snap, to throw me out, to have me killed, but she doesn't move. She retains her calm expression, not stirring in her seat.

"Indeed, you are mad, Roman… But you are no Max. Just another lost soul in the Wastes. A Warlord or a legend you are not, but your skill in the seat of a vehicle cannot be denied. You are also brave, or stupid, for facing a Goddess with near immeasurable power compared to yourself and daring to speak up when you know the consequences."

She averts her gaze for a moment to look at Chuckles. I remain silent. It wasn't bravery that made me speak up, that much I know for sure. As the anger fades, I feel relieved that she didn't choose to punish me for that outburst. She probably thinks I'm not worth the effort. Either way, I don't think I should push my luck any further.

"I will hire the three of you," Anuket declares, returning her eyes to me. "However, I wish nothing but the best for my former subjects. I wish Chuckles the Road Warrior to survive his first job. Roman, his life is your responsibility. If he dies, you will be executed. Is that understood?"

Before I have a chance to respond, she continues.

"The job being that a group of tribals have been ravaging my borders and abducting my subjects. The previous parties have failed, so I require Road Warriors. Find the tribals, eliminate them how you wish, and if my citizens live, return them."

I simply nod. I've done more than enough talking. I take a few steps back, rejoining Three and Chuckles. The former Blackthumb's tears have now dried. I expected the job to be tough, sure, but I didn't think I'd have to babysit the whole time. As if keeping myself alive isn't hard enough.

"Now, what do you wish for your reward?" Anuket asks, her voice now slightly less harsh.

Three begins: "Jus-"

"I require no payment, Lady Anuket!" Chuckles exclaims, immediately cutting him off. "Please, allow my free labor to be a gift to your glory!"

Anuket sighs. "If you insist, Road Warrior." She appears to be getting annoyed with her former servant's piety. He doesn't notice; he's too busy brushing some dust off of his oil-stained blue jeans, like he's suddenly become self-conscious of how dirty he is in the presence of his Goddess.

"Just my usual," Three continues blankly as if he were not just interrupted by a fanatic of the woman who robbed him of his eye. He is fiddling with something between his fingers in his right hand. Most likely his die. "Three shares of what's scavenged, two bundles tobacco, a few meals and three pounds of spice."

"Of course, Veteran."

With that confirmation, the dark-skinned Handmaiden with freckles begins scribbling notes on a piece of parchment placed in front of her on the ground.

"And what do you desire, Roman?" The way Anuket says my name is vile, like a curse.

I avert my gaze as she speaks to me, trying to keep myself from glaring at her. I lock eyes with the scribe for a split second. She's stopped her note-taking and is looking at me, her large blue eyes staring with enviable innocence. Her gaze seems to pierce through my skull from across the room. I look back to Anuket.

"One share of the scavenged things." I'm not exactly sure what a 'share' entails, but I figure I should try to follow Three's lead on this one. "Water. A few cups of spice. And, uh, a few cans of old food," I add, remembering the dog tied to my car.

"I see one of my most humble allies has brought me one even humbler," Anuket says.

Three glances at me and then throws his die across the floor. The object rolls for several seconds before stopping on a four.

"Lady Anuket," Three speaks up robotically the moment the die stops, interrupting Anuket as she opens her mouth to continue. "I have indeed brought you a humble man, but his skill certainly deserves more payment than he asks. If you express your generosity, he may return to perform great deeds for you."

Anuket's sharp, green eyes meet mine again. "Very well. You carry the weight of another man and ask for little. That much is to be respected. Chuckles has refused payment, but you take what would have been his. Do you accept three extra shares?"

 _Three and his die to the rescue again,_ I think dryly. It's not that I'm not grateful; I'm glad to take more stuff. It just seems a stupid way to decide things. I wonder briefly if Anuket thinks it's as ridiculous as I do. Probably not. Somehow I get the feeling that she and I don't have much in common.

Those thoughts are quickly chased away as Anuket and the young freckled scribe watch me carefully, waiting for me to speak. The intense stares nearly make me ill. So many eyes. When I entered this room, I thought the air was soft and sweet. Now it seems stifling. Everyone is looking at me, talking to me and about me. It's sooner I can get out of here, the better.

"I accept, Lady Anuket."

"Excellent," Anuket breathes with relief. "Since East and West Eden are doing well on scrap this season, the tribals are sure to not contain much we need, and just because I haven't seen you in awhile, Three, I have decided to only take five shares."

The scribe stares up at her with doll-like eyes, briefly pausing from her note-taking. Anuket quietly nods in confirmation. Three quickly strides over to his die, pockets it, and returns to the group.

"And now, I will leave you to my Handmaidens," the Goddess states, standing up from her throne. "You will be well taken care of for tonight - will be treated as guests. You shall leave in the morning."

She steps down from the dais, not sparing us another glance. The scribe passes her notes to another Handmaiden, who disappears with Anuket into a hallway to one side of the throne. I breathe a sigh of relief, then quickly regret it as the Handmaidens approach, staring at us with those blindingly pure eyes. An act, I'm sure of it. They are Anuket's servants, after all. They make me miss the dangers of the Road; at least I know how to deal with those.

* * *

Author's note: I hope everyone is having an enjoyable holiday season. Thanks as always to all you readers, and special thanks this week to new follower CherryBlossomTrinity. Don't be afraid to leave reviews if you're so inclined; I dig feedback and hearing people's thoughts. See you all in 2018, and stay tuned.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The four remaining Handmaidens walk slowly and gracefully. They lack Anuket's stride of confidence; instead, they move as if in a trance, going about their work without a real sense of purpose. Their eyes gaze at us, childlike, with no hint of Anuket's cold, calculating stare. Somehow, it's almost as intimidating. The less I know about someone, the more dangerous they are. The Handmaidens give away nothing.

"Road Warriors," the thin, blonde woman greets us quietly.

She says the title with awe in her voice, like she's never seen people like us before. But Three has been here before, so that can't be true. Maybe she's new. Or maybe it's part of the act.

"We have dinner prepared in the back and shall run a bath for each of you shortly," she continues. "Is there anything else you will need during your stay?"

I'm momentarily distracted, trying to remember how long it's been since I've had a bath. Five hundred days? A thousand? I can't even remember the last time I had the luxury of washing my face, never mind my whole body. Maybe staying here won't be so bad.

Once again, I'm pulled out of my thoughts by eyes. The Handmaidens are all looking at us expectantly, and I can't seem to maintain eye contact with any of them for very long. What's worse, I find my gaze drifting downwards toward the translucent gowns. Cord's voice suddenly echoes in my mind, bubbling up from somewhere in the back of my memory.

" _Womenfolk don't usually 'ppreciate others lookin' at their womenfolk parts,"_ Cord had once explained to Simon very slowly, as if talking to someone with half a brain. My unfortunate Utopian friend had just gotten smacked in the face by a woman who still had her pride if nothing else. " _We're here on o-fficial Road Warrior business. No more wandering eyes, yeah?"_

I stare at my boots instead, trying to think of something I might need. I notice the bandages wrapped around my leg, now just as covered in dirt as the rest of my clothing. Anuket mentioned the wound, though I'd all but forgotten it since arriving here. Eden is full of distractions. Remembering it brings back a dull, throbbing pain. That gives me my answer.

"I, uh…" I look back up at the Handmaidens, determined to keep eye contact this time. The blonde woman's grey eyes meet mine, unblinking. "Could use some clean bandages for my leg."

"Only the best medical care for our guest." She motions another Handmaiden, the scribe with dark hair and blue eyes, towards me. "Trace, please clean the blonde Road Warrior up."

"Please, follow me, Roman." Trace's voice is gentle but somewhat distant - as if she had just woken up from a daydream.

The freckled scribe turns and walks toward an opening on the opposite side of the throne, politely motioning for me to follow. I follow her without so much as a glance back at Three and Chuckles. I'm sure they can handle themselves.

I enter a narrow hallway carved into the rock wall. The space is dark, especially compared to the well-lit throne room. The air grows musty, and the patches of moss become more sparse as we leave the water source behind. My eyes dart around, peering into every shadowy crevice in the stone. Hallways make me nervous. Of all the things that could possibly bother me in this crazy world - hallways. What if I need to move at a moment's notice? There's hardly room to breathe, let alone dodge an attack. Not that I think this Handmaiden would attack me, but I can't be certain of anything in a place like this. I wish I had my knife. I catch myself adjusting and readjusting my scarf as I walk. Nervous habit, I guess. Frustrated, I force my hands to my sides and try to distract myself by focusing on the Handmaiden.

Trace walks with perfect posture, swaying her hips in a steady rhythm as she moves. Her bare feet barely make a sound, making my bootsteps seem like gunshots by comparison. Her dark, slightly wavy hair hangs halfway down her back, swishing from side to side with every step. Behind the curtain of hair, I can see her back through the thin robe that doesn't really seem to serve a practical purpose. As the hair bounces back and forth, I catch glimpses of a large tattoo stretching across her entire back. I squint, trying to get a better look at the ink on her dark skin in the dimly lit hallway. After a moment, I realize it's all words. I have no way of knowing what it says, but I'd guess it's the details of her slavery. Cord had a tattoo like that - descriptions of his blood, condition, where he came from, age. This one might be the same thing. Simon could read it to me if he were here. He's the one who taught me to read numbers. He was going to teach me more - letters, how to spell my name, words - but the way things turned out, we never got the chance. Besides, it's not much of a useful skill for a Road Warrior.

I look away from Trace as the hallway changes. A few large holes appear in the walls, pouring some light out into the hall. Doorways with no doors. I glance inside one to see a pantry full of fresh fruit and vegetables. My mouth waters at the sight. Didn't the blonde Handmaiden say something about dinner? Another doorway reveals a small room with a single desk and a few shelves full of books breaking apart at the binding - like a tiny version of Mend's library. A different hallway branches off through another opening. The final set of entrances lead to modest living quarters lit by electric lights. They might be the Handmaidens' rooms, or maybe they're spaces for other guests. I don't know if anyone else actually lives in the palace. I haven't even seen any Crocodiles since we passed through the front door. They must be hiding around here somewhere; I doubt Anuket would be stupid enough to leave herself so unguarded. Then again, her pride might make her overconfident. She seems completely secure in her power. Is that an act, too?

Trace eventually stops at one of these entrances. The hall continues beyond her, turning a corner and preventing me from seeing anything deeper in the palace. The scribe stands beside the doorway and turns around, looking up at me with innocent blue eyes. With one arm, she motions me inside.

"Right in this room, Roman. It shouldn't take me long to dress your wound."

I narrow my eyes, shooting her a wary look.

"Just need bandages," I protest. "I can do the rest myself."

"It won't hurt for me to at least look at it," Trace replies softly. "You would not want that to get an infection. A silent killer."

I give a noncommittal grunt and step into the room, blinking against the bright, electric light coming from a bulb overhead. The walls, floor, and ceiling are the same stone as the rest of the palace, this time clear of moss. There are no hanging plants or decorations of any kind. Several dressers line the walls, along with a few tables, all made of wood. A lot of furniture for such a small space. Against the right wall is a wooden bed frame supporting a mattress without sheets. Unlike other I've seen, this bed isn't full of holes or rusted springs. It looks soft, clean, and comfortable. In fact, everything in the room is in good condition - perhaps the cleanest I've seen since Utopia. Much more inviting than the dark hallway.

"Please, sit down on this bed so I can remove the bandage," Trace insists gently. I hear her feet softly brushing against the floor as she enters the room behind me.

"Fine," I reluctantly agree, mostly because I really want to sit down.

I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, marveling at how soft it is. Shame I probably won't be able to get much rest here, thanks to my paranoia. Trace steps forward and leans over to examine my leg. This close to the Handmaiden, a smell washes over me. Unlike the mysterious smell in the throne room, this one I recognize: cucumber and olive oil. Haven't smelled either of those since Utopia. The gardens of East Eden must be very good if they have enough crops leftover to use for their bodies.

Trace silently begins to unravel the red-stained bandage around my thigh. The wrapping is partially stuck to my skin and pants; the sticky cloth makes a grotesque ripping sound as the Handmaiden pulls it free from my leg. The process seems to take ages; Three must have really overdone it. I conceal a wince as the musty air of the room hits the now exposed wound.

"Oh my," the scribe gasps slightly. "Unfortunately, Roman, you are going to need stitches. It's a pretty nasty gash." She throws the dirty bandages on the table and opens one of the dresser drawers, digging for supplies.

I look down and feel a surge of pain, as if my body had been suppressing the feeling until I became aware of the severity. The spear wound is about the length and width of my pointer finger. The entire area is caked with dry blood, preventing me from seeing how deep it is. It's far from the worst scrape I've gotten, but Trace is right: it needs medical attention.

The quiet Handmaiden returns from rummaging through the dressers. She sets a tray of medical equipment on the bed before kneeling on the floor beside my leg. She picks up a bottle and a cloth from the tray. I clench my teeth as she pours water onto the would and begins working at it with the piece of clean fabric.

"This is just to clear out any debris before I begin giving sutures," she explains. She sounds almost completely different now, speaking clearly and attentively. Seems she's out of whatever daydream she was having earlier.

After she finishes cleaning out the wound, Trace trades the bottle and cloth for a hook-shaped needle threaded with a thin wire. She also picks up what looks like a tiny clamp with long handles.

"This will hurt a little, but it isn't much compared to what you are used to, Road Warrior." She says 'Road Warrior' admiringly, just like the blonde Handmaiden. Makes me uncomfortable.

Trace inserts the needle into my leg. I watch her work, ignoring the pain by focusing on her skill. She clearly knows what she's doing. A medic as well as a scribe. I wonder if all the Handmaidens have this kind of training. Trace ties off small knots in the wire with the clamps, working so fast with the tiny tool that I can barely see what's happening. She administers six stitches in a little over a minute. Once finished, she cleans the area of any fresh blood.

"You can cut those out in a few weeks," Trace directs as she wraps clean bandages around my thigh. She speaks much more confidently now. I guess stitches are more interesting that notes. "Come see me in the morning so I can check one more time before you leave. You probably won't need more bandages, but just to be safe."

I nod, but she isn't looking at me. I don't think she cares much, though, since she doesn't press me for a response. I guess whether I take her advice or not isn't really her concern. She's just doing her job. If I die, Anuket will just find another Road Warrior to do her work. Trace finishes with the bandages, but she doesn't get up. Just kneels there for several moments, staring at her handiwork. I start to feel uncomfortable, but just as I open my mouth to say something, she speaks again.

"Um… Roman…" she mumbles. Her voice is quiet again, but not distant. She sounds sheepish this time - alert but nervous. "What's it like? Out there?"

Her question takes me by surprise. Has she really never left the palace? Maybe she means outside of Eden. I figured she was bought from a slaver or captured by warriors, but maybe she was too young when it happened to remember much. And even if she were born here, she must have heard stories about the Wastes. Even within the white walls of Utopia, I heard what the outside world was like - and it was never anything I enjoyed hearing about. I narrow my eyes at her, but she stares at the ground.

"It's, uh… It's…" I struggle with my response. It occurs to me that I don't have to answer her at all. But then again, she did just fix my leg up a thousand times better than I ever could've done, so I guess I owe her. "It's… bright."

She doesn't reply, waiting for something more. I almost wish Anuket had cut out my tongue. I take a breath and try again.

"It's… like this." I point at my bandaged thigh. Trace looks at it, paying close attention. "Hurts. World can kill you instantly, or it can take its time. Sneak up on you. Silent killer, like you said. Except there's no one to fix it. No one put stitches in it or cover it over. It won't get better. But you can't just sit and wait for it to get you. You have to survive because… because… you just have to, yeah?"

I shut my mouth, suddenly realizing I've said too much. Guess it's a lot easier to talk when she's not looking at me with those eyes. Maybe it's because I'm jealous. If her question is genuine, it means those eyes have never seen the horrors of the Wasteland. My eyes are dark - full of death and destruction. Maybe even madness, like Anuket said.

"That makes sense," Trace whispers, finally getting to her feet. The shyness is gone from her voice, replaced by a calmness that doesn't seem completely sincere. "It's just… I wish there was someone to fix it. The world wasn't always like this, you know. It was pleasant once…"

She trails off, lost in thought. Those books I saw in the small library must have plenty of pre-Fall knowledge. I was never much interested in that stuff. Why bother with the past? Can't help much now. We're stuck with what we have. No going back.

"You aren't like other Road Warriors I have met," Trace continues after a moment. "Not like Three, or Bishop, or Fetch. Those awful things Lady Anuket said - they aren't true are they? Surely there are still good people…"

She goes silent again, this time seeming to be at a loss for words. I've heard this kind of thing before. It's the talk of someone at the end of their rope. Someone who knows the world is dead but still doesn't want to believe it. Yet, she speaks quietly and calmly - in full control of her emotions. Her face isn't sad or happy. She looks almost content.

"Even good people have to do bad things to stay alive," I reply as images of Cord and Simon flash in my mind. "Doesn't make them bad people. Not if they can shoulder the regret without letting it drive them insane."

I'm not sure if I'm reassuring her or myself. Both, I guess. This sort of thing is what I used to tell myself every day. But I've crossed the line more than a few times by now. I'm not a good person anymore, but I like to believe they still exist out there. Somewhere.

Trace nods, absorbing my words. She folds her arms over her breasts, as if suddenly self-conscious about them. Or maybe to make speaking to her a bit more comfortable for me. I look at her carefully, studying her face as she gazes at the floor. Why is she still here, talking to me? And why am I telling all this to someone I just met? What do I know about her? She's a slave, Handmaiden, and assistant to one of the most powerful people in the Wastes. She can read and write, is skilled with surgery, and has pre-Fall knowledge. Her vapid expression is possibly a cover; it's impossible to know what she's thinking. Her unblemished skin, innocent expression, curiosity, and education means she's from some remaining bastion of humanity, much like me. But instead of being pushed into the harsh reality of a Road Warrior, she was pushed into a life of servitude. I learned how to fight, and she gained knowledge. Both can be lethal in their own right.

"But what about you? Are you a good person, Roman?" She avoids eye contact as if embarrassed or fearful, but her voice remains serene. "Can I… trust you?"

 _Trust._ A dangerous word.

"If you're smart, you won't trust anyone," I say, leaving the bed and moving to lean against the opposite wall. Sitting was making me feel like I was being interrogated. Maybe I am. But there's no harm in telling her what I already told Anuket. "That stuff I said about my friend who went mad? Almost killed me because I trusted him."

I go quiet for a moment, thinking of how Mend used to worry about the Sovereign's sanity. How more and more people were getting banished for madness. Something in our blood, Mend said. Simon's blood. My blood?

"Someday I'll snap, just like he did. Any good left in me now, it'll all be gone when that happens."

Trace looks enthralled by my words, her placid expression now changed to one of intrigue. What could be interrogation could just as easily be a sheltered person fascinated by an outsider. I haven't decided if she is a threat or not, but her body language and expression seem to put her slightly more toward not-dangerous.

"You are from a city, aren't you, Roman?" She makes eye contact with me briefly before shifting her gaze slightly to the left of my head. Maybe she knows her eyes make me uncomfortable. "A real city. One not completely ravaged by raiders, slaves, radiation, and War. You're too honest, too kind, too full of regrets to be a born and raised Road Warrior, are you not?" She speaks faster, and her eyes suddenly seem to glow with excitement. "Please, tell me all about it! No one else will hear of it." She stops and swallows hard, looking slightly embarrassed. "I… write in my free time."

I don't bother to hide the look of surprise that flashes across my face. She went from no emotions to several in less than a minute. I told her that I'm going mad, and she still wants to know more about me. She called me kind, but I haven't done anything nice for her. Haven't done anything bad, either. Maybe 'not bad' is still better than she's used to. It's strange having someone actually want to talk to me. But it's also kind of… nice. Relieving, in a way. At the same time, it's suspicious. There's a good chance she'll run straight to Anuket to report everything I say. Did a Handmaiden ask Three these same questions? Maybe that was the start of how he lost his eye.

"I'm sure Three has more exciting stories than I do," I respond, narrowing my eyes at her yet again. "Why are you so interested in me?"

"I already told you," Trace responds quickly and excitedly. "You aren't like other Road Warriors. You aren't as rough, savage, or stupid."

I raise an eyebrow, unconvinced. The freckled Handmaiden leans against the bedside table, clasping her hands below her waist and regaining her composure.

"It's just that… I don't really talk to a lot of people other than Anuket when she gives me orders, the other Handmaidens while we are working together, or brutish Warriors who only talk about killing, pillaging, and sex." She speaks quietly again, returning her gaze to the floor. "And you haven't proudly talked about how many tribals you brutally murdered, bragged how many gallons of guzzolene you stole from a struggling village, or fucked me with your eyes. You may be right about not being able to trust anyone, but I figure you are at least as close as I can get."

They must get some nasty types in here if I'm the first person she's been able to consider trusting. I still think it's kind of a stupid idea, but if it means I don't have to spend all my time here alone with my thoughts, maybe I could give it a shot.

"Fine," I agree. "Won't tell you everything. Probably couldn't if I tried - don't remember it all."

I pause, trying to remember what she asked me before. I take a deep breath, and suddenly she's looking at me. Meeting my eyes. Waiting. This time it's my turn to look away. I choose to stare at the medical supplies on the bed as I begin.

"You're right, I'm from a city. Big one, far away from here. It was clean - cleaner than this place, even. Perfect. If you weren't perfect, you got kicked out. Simple."

I pause, trying to decide how much to say. Simon's face appears in my mind, smiling like he did in the years before Mend got banished.

"My friend - you would have liked him, I think. He was smart - a lot smarter than me. He could read and write. He learned all sorts of things from a very old man. One day that man got thrown out for going blind. We went after him. Ran into a Road Warrior who was burying his corpse. He taught us how to survive - made us Road Warriors ourselves. The three of us were..."

I trail off, deciding I don't want to talk about Simon and Cord or the bond we all shared out on the Road.

"Well, uh, you already know the rest."

I glance up at her face, suddenly feeling nervous. Did I say too much? Trace's eyes are wide with what looks like genuine delight.

"So you were considered perfect? What was this city called?" She doesn't bother to pause between questions. "You can't read? I could teach you! Why didn't you go back to the city?"

She stops abruptly, her bright eyes filling with sadness. She looks at the ground again.

"That was inappropriate of me, I apologize," she mutters, tracing a circle on the stone floor with her bare foot. "I'm sorry to hear about your friend. I'm sure he was a great man."

"Gone and done now." I hesitate, then decide to answer her questions. Maybe it'll get her to show some emotion again. "As for being perfect, guess I was good enough to stay in… in _Utopia_." The name comes out like a curse, surprising me. I can't remember the last time I said it out loud, but it seems I've grown bitter since then. "But no one's really perfect. I'd've burned with the rest of 'em if I stayed. Instead, I'm out here, slowly losing my sanity in this hell. Can't say I know which is better."

I have to think for a moment in order to remember what came next in her long stream of questions. It's kind of nice, being able to talk about myself. Even if I don't go into details, it makes me feel… lighter, somehow.

"Thought about going back, but I… don't think I really want to. Nothing there for me but memories I wish I could get rid of. Besides, there's probably nothing left now but a ruin full of scavengers. Good riddance."

I look up at the ceiling, resting the back of my head against the wall. I wonder if she'll write all of this down later. Maybe she'll add things in the gaps I left - make it more exciting. Maybe some of the books in the library are ones she's written herself.

"I can read numbers," I say, remembering another question she asked. "Took me long enough to learn those. Took almost all my friend's patience, too." I lower my head and look at her. She's staring at me again, fascinated. I manage to meet her eyes. "You'd go mad for sure if you tried to teach me to read words."

Trace smiles at that. It makes her blue eyes glow even brighter.

"Maybe I will," she replies, not sounding at all discouraged. "However, I do believe you are the one who said we all need to be a little crazy to survive in this world."

She tries in vain to wipe the grin off her face. Whatever act she was putting on before is completely gone. I wonder if all the Handmaidens are like this behind their facade. I find myself returning a sort of half-smile. It probably looks stupid, but it feels nice.

"How about this?" she continues quickly. "You come back from this job, and I teach you how to read to the best of my ability before you leave? If you ever want to learn more, you can just come back and do another job! You will be able to write your own story!"

My smile widens for a second, then fades away as I think about her offer. I don't need to learn to read; what good would it do me? Why would I write my story? So a group of scavengers can kill me and use the paper for kindling? And yet, I wouldn't mind spending more time around Trace. Out of everyone I've met since I left Utopia, she's the only one I don't feel is trying to get something from me - unless I count excitement. But there's something - someone - that might make things complicated.

"What about Anuket?" I ask, scratching at the scars where my ear used to be. "You wouldn't get… in trouble for that, would you? Don't think she likes me very much."

"Of course not," Trace replies, her smile mildly starting to fade. She suddenly notices the bandages on the table and starts gathering them up. "She has surprisingly few rules with our free time. She may be suspicious of a Road Warrior coming to visit a Handmaiden so often, but as long as we don't have sex, she won't be upset with having a reliable man do work for her." She places the bandages on the tray with the used needle and bloodied cloth. The see-through gown swishes as she moves. She looks down at herself, then back to me, blushing. "And, uh… I could find a coat or something if this makes you uncomfortable."

"Oh. Uh… If you want to… Uh, sure," I stammer, rubbing the stubble on my face in a poor attempt to hide a blush that mirrors hers. Some toughened Road Warrior I turned out to be. I awkwardly clear my throat. "But, uh, I guess you can try teaching me. Just don't expect me to be any good at it, yeah?"

"You're going to love it!" Trace squeals, hurting my good ear. She bounces up and down with excitement, speaking faster and louder than ever. "Reading and writing is great! You never know when you can use it! I'm so excited! I have never taught anyone how to read before! We'll have so much to talk about! After dinner, I'll come find you and we can start the first lesson!"

She suddenly realizes what she's doing and stops bobbing. She sheepishly covers her breasts with her hands and looks away, turning red.

"But uh… I'll be sure to find a jacket first."

I clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from laughing, but it still comes out as a kind of snort. Trace pouts for a moment before breaking into a small smile.

"I'd offer you my jacket, but…" I look down at the grey leather, all torn up and stained with dirt and blood. That reminds me. "I heard something about a bath, yeah?"

"Yes," Trace replies cheerfully. "The other Handmaidens are running your baths. I'll lead you to it."

She turns and heads out the door, exposing her tattoo of words that mean nothing to me. However, with some difficulty, I can make out the numbers _14679_ , _5_ , _8_ , and _140_ in the upper left corner. The first might mean days, but days of what? She certainly doesn't look that old. The others could mean anything. Maybe I can ask her about it later, during the lesson.

I follow her down the dim hallway. Trace now has a slight spring in her step, and she walks with purpose. We take a right, entering a shorter hall with five doorways on either side, each with a white curtain hanging beside it. Two of the curtains are closed, and I can hear the soft splashing of water from the other side. The other eight are open. I glance into the nearest one to see a bench placed beside a small pool carved into the floor.

"Any of these rooms, Roman. You deserve a little quiet and privacy, so we have curtains up. They aren't translucent; Goddess forbid someone sees you naked," she says jokingly. "Take all the time you need. When you are ready, dinner will be down that hall to the right. You can't miss it."

I nod slowly, only half paying attention to what she's saying. My eyes are fixed on the pool inside the closest open room. _Water_. It's so beautiful, clear, inviting. As Trace finishes speaking, I walk towards the open doorway like a man hypnotized. It's only when I turn around to close the curtain that I snap out of it.

"Yeah, to the right, got it," I reply, not sure how long ago she stopped talking. The half-smile returns for a moment as I meet her gaze. "Thank you."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Roman is back! And so am I. With any luck, I should be back to posting chapters more regularly. As a reward for your patience, this chapter is a little longer than the others. For those of you craving more of that Wasteland action, not to worry! Something major is coming up very soon. As always, thank you all for reading. Special thanks this week to Demon Shadow 16 for the review/follow and to Lewibaton for the continual constructive criticism and compliments. Stay tuned.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

I shut the curtain and return my attention to the pool, stepping closer to get a better look. The liquid is so clean that I can see the stone floor at the bottom without any trouble. All the heat and dryness of a thousand days in the Wasteland hits me at once, and I resist the urge to jump right in. I sit down on the bench to remove my boots. There are a few large towels folded neatly under the seat. The rest of my clothes come off next, including the fresh bandage. Guess we should have taken care of that after the bath, but I was too distracted by everything in the palace to think about it. Trace must have been pretty distracted, too. I figure a little water won't hurt, though, especially water this clean.

I sit on the edge of the pool and slowly dip my legs in. It's heaven. Seconds later, I slide off the edge and submerge myself in the beautiful, beautiful water. My feet touch the bottom, and I straighten my legs. It's shallow enough for me to stand in - a good thing, considering I have no idea how to swim. My leg wound stings a bit, but I hardly notice. The water is for bathing, but that doesn't stop me from scooping up a few handfuls and drinking. Water is water, and it would be a waste not to use it to its full potential.

I gaze at the pile of dirty clothes lying beside the pool. I don't want to put them on again after getting clean, but I don't have anything else to wear. After a moment of thought, I shrug and pull them into the water. If I have to wear wet clothes to dinner, so be it. I take a while trying to get most of the dirt and blood out of them, especially the pants. It doesn't all come out, of course, but at least there's a bit of a visible improvement. Once that's done, wring out the pieces of clothing and toss them onto the bench to dry for a bit while I finish bathing.

I don't know exactly how long I spend in the pool, trying to wash off what seems like a lifetime's worth of grime. The stone floor slowly disappears from sight as the water gets murkier and murkier. At last, when my skin is red from scrubbing off the dirt, I climb out of the pool. The air feels very cold now, and I wonder if it's dark outside yet. I wring out my clothes again before patting them down with one of the towels. Not satisfied, I resort to whipping them back and forth through the air. In the end, they're still fairly damp, but at least they look a little better. Probably smell better, too, but I stopped being able to notice a long time ago.

My body is pretty much dry by the time I finish with the clothes, but my hair is still dripping. I keep having to brush it out of my eyes. I wish I had my knife so I could shave the damn stubble off my face, too. Then I'd really feel clean. I rub the towel over my hair a couple times before taking a seat on the bench. I carefully wrap the still fairly clean bandage around my thigh, glad I can finally put it under my pants this time. I feel wide awake and refreshed, like I could go do Anuket's job right now and be back with energy to spare. And yet, at the same time, I kind of just want to collapse on that bed and sleep for days. Then I remember that there's _food_ waiting for me down the hall, and I pull on my clothes in a heartbeat.

I head for the doorway. As I open the curtain, I give the pool one last, longing glance. It's full of filth now, but it's still more water than I've had access to in a very long time. With a sigh, I start walking down the hall. As I round the corner to the right, a smell hits me. Something cooking. It gets stronger and stronger with each step. I don't see any guards, servants, or guests in the hall. Is it really just Anuket and the Handmaidens living here? It's no wonder Trace seems so lonely and bored. I still don't know exactly why I agreed to let her teach me how to read, but I guess there's really no harm in learning a new skill. Just something to pass the time, that's all.

I follow the smell to a large chamber with a high ceiling and several electric lights. A Handmaiden, the one with the red hair and freckled skin, stands attentively on the far side of the room, gazing at nothing in particular. There is no furniture except for a round, wooden table in the center surrounded by stools. On the table is a small variety of different foods: carrots, corn, potatoes, and some kind of leafy green I'm unfamiliar with. There are no spices. At the table are Three and Chuckles, sitting a few stools apart. Chuckles has his back to the Handmaiden while Three has chosen a spot that lets him keep an eye on her and the doorway. Each man has a small glass of milk and plate loaded full of vegetables. A third spot is set opposite Three with a glass of milk, a plate, and a fork.. Chuckles is eating voraciously, shoveling more food onto his plate and into his mouth before he can even finish chewing anything. Three absentmindedly stabs at the carrots on his plate, nodding at me as I enter. With all the dirt gone from his face, he looks even older. I can see more wrinkles around mouth, and the purple under his eye looks like a fresh bruise. Chuckles, on the other hand, looks younger than ever now that the rest of his facepaint is gone. He's really just a kid.

"Hey, how was your bath?" After listening to Trace's soft and comforting voice, Three's harsh speech feels like sandpaper in my ear.

"Mmph?" grunts Chuckles, stopping his feast to glance irritatedly up at Three.

"I was talking to Roman."

Without another sound, Chuckles goes right back to eating corn like a machine.

"Best thing that's happened to me in ages," I say, taking a seat at the table. "Besides you and your die saving my skin, of course." I get the urge to smile at Three as I say that, but I manage to hold it back. Being in a good mood is strange.

I begin scooping food onto my plate, taking some of each of the vegetables. I don't quite shovel it in like Chuckles, but I'm a lot more eager about it than Three. Everything tastes amazing, so I slow down a bit in order to make it last.

"How about you? Enjoying your stay?" I ask before taking another bite of potato. The fact that I actually feel like talking is strange, too. I guess I have Trace to blame for that.

"This isn't a hotel, Roman," Three lectures, putting down his fork and scowling at me. "We aren't 'staying' here. Lady Anuket has her Handmaidens put on a song and dance for us to lower our guard in case she needs to do something. We are just as much in enemy territory as we are out in the Wastes."

Chuckles stops chewing and stares at the Cyclops, mouth agape. Bits of corn fall from his teeth onto the table. His usual, forced frown is replaced with a look of horror.

"Don't look at me like that, Chuckles," Three sputters aggressively. "You are a Road Warrior now. You need to learn to never ever let your guard down. Not even around the woman you revere so much. She dangerous, and so is this one." He nods his head towards the redheaded Handmaiden.

Chuckles tries to speak, but he can't seem to form sounds. His lips move silently, knocking loose more corn.

"You need to learn that, too, Roman," Three continues, turning to me again. "You're too happy, too relaxed. You have already let your guard down. What if Anuket decided she didn't like the way she spoke to you, so had your milk poisoned? Or had the Handmaiden slice a major artery in your leg?" He stands up and points at his covered eye. "Don't get comfortable or secure, ever."

I sit in stunned silence as Three leaves the room, stomping down the hall. Chuckles puts his fork down and stares sullenly at his plate. I sigh audibly and rub my eyes with my hands. My good mood is all but gone now, and all I want to do is sleep. I rest my arms on the table and look at Chuckles.

"He's right," I say quietly, half to the young Road Warrior and half to myself. "Didn't have to say it like that, but he's right. We should be more careful."

Chuckles doesn't reply. Instead, he glances behind him at the Handmaiden with a look of concern. She is on the verge of tears - whether it's from sadness or fear, I can't tell. She doesn't budge from her post or look at us.

I stifle a yawn. Despite what Three said about getting comfortable, I don't think I'll be able to stop myself from falling asleep. Maybe Trace will see how tired I am and leave me alone. I was kind of looking forward to our lesson, but now… Three has been here before - he knows a lot more about this place than I do. I was a fool for getting so carried away. I should know better by now. I told her myself not to trust anyone, didn't I? Stupid.

"Have the rest of mine if you want," I offer, sliding my half-empty plate towards the former Blackthumb. "Don't worry, I think I'd know by now if it were poisoned."

"Thanks," Chuckles mutters, slowly putting his frown back on as he scrapes my remains onto his plate. "But, hey, Blonde One. Don't worry about him. The Cyclops is a bitter, angry, old man. He doesn't like Our Lady too much. But we tolerate him here because he is one of the best, and the other two don't come here much."

He sets down the plate and turns around on his stool to address the Handmaiden.

"And, ma'am, I know you couldn't hurt a fly. We have legends about the infinite kindness of Handmaidens. He is just upset that he was caught sleeping with one."

The Handmaiden doesn't move or respond. The tears in her eyes are already dry. Chuckles turns back to me.

"You rest easy here, friend," Chuckles concludes. "We are under the Great Lady's protection, the only safe place in the Wastes outside of the Caesar's Palace."

"Sure," I say, unconvinced. Three seems to hate everything about this place, but Chuckles feels right at home. I don't know what to think. I stand up slowly, yawning and rolling my shoulders back. "Guess I'll get some sleep. Big day tomorrow, yeah?"

Chuckles just grunts, already digging into the remains of my dinner. I turn and walk out of the room, glancing suspiciously at the Handmaiden as I go. She doesn't meet my eyes, continuing to look ahead with that innocent, glazed-over stare. _Song and dance,_ Three said. I head down the hall, glancing into the bathing rooms as I pass by. Empty. The pools that seemed so inviting are now eerily still and cold. The passage feels like it's getting smaller as I go. Closing in on me. I hate hallways. How did I ever think I could relax here?

I finally make it back to the room where Trace fixed up my leg. I take off my damp scarf and jacket and throw them on one of the tables. Then I sit on the bed and remove my boots, tossing them aside in frustration. I miss my car. I miss being able to go where I want to go, provided I have the fuel for it. This place is suffocating, and yet I feel exposed. I put my head in my hands again, trying to relax. I'm so tired, but I can't bring myself to lie down. I wish this room had a door. Anuket could stroll in and shoot me in my sleep. Or Three could roll his die and decide I'm not worth having around anymore. He thinks I'm young and stupid. He's right. I let myself start to trust someone because she smiled at me. I'm no better than Chuckles.

I hear a light tapping on the wall. Whipping my head up, I see Trace standing in the doorway. She is dressed in an oversized purple flannel shirt that goes halfway to her knees.

"Hi, Roman," she attempts to whisper. Her excitement makes her voice much louder than intended, startling her a little. She gives up on that and continues at a normal volume. "You ready for your first lesson? I'm going to teach you to write your name!"

She holds up a clipboard with a pencil and sheets of blank paper. Her big, goofy grin looks so out of place after spending time with the two scowling Road Warriors. I look up at her, standing there and seeming so happy. _Song and dance._ Nothing but an act.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, sitting forward and studying her smiling face. "What's the point? I might die tomorrow. Or get executed for letting that Blackthumb die. Hell, I might even kill him myself if things get really bad. Who cares if I know how to write my name, huh?"

Trace lowers the clipboard. The grin vanishes from her face, replaced by confusion and sadness. I narrow my eyes.

"What do you mean? Don't you want to learn? You were in a good mood - what happened? Did Three get to you?" She rushes through the questions, not giving me time to answer. Her voice is flustered, like she doesn't know what to say or when to stop. "You won't die out there. You have proven you can handle yourself, and you'll be with a veteran. Don't say things like that!"

"What am I supposed to say?" I spit out, interrupting her stream of consciousness. My voice "I'd be dead right now if Three hadn't saved me. He's a veteran, all right. He's been here before; he knows things. Am I supposed to just ignore what he says about this place? About Anuket? About _you_?"

Trace looks at her feet, avoiding my eyes as I go silent. A rolls down her cheek and falls from her chin. The room is so quiet I can hear the drop of liquid slap the stone floor. The Handmaiden raises the clipboard and begins scribbling something.

"I guess I thought you were different," she replies at last.

She tears the paper free from the board and sets it on the nearest table. Then she steps back. Her eyes are nearly dry, and her expression is placid.

"I will let you sleep. You have a big day tomorrow, Road Warrior." Her voice is calm and distant again, and she says the title with reverence.

She turns and walks through the doorway. Before heading down the hall, she pauses.

"If you ever change your mind, I'll be here," she says without looking back. Then she's done.

I almost tell her to wait. The word is on my lips, but I don't let it slip out. This is for the best. She already knows more about me than anyone. That's dangerous. What she knows, Anuket knows. I can't let her get any closer. I can't be her friend. I can't trust her. I can't.

I sigh, rubbing my sore eyes. Then I stand and go to the table by the doorway. The piece of paper is lying facedown on the wooden surface. I pick it up and turn it over, blinking the weariness from my eyes so I can get a better look at the thing.

Words. No numbers or pictures. Complete nonsense to me. It could be anything: angry insults, my name, or nothing at all. Maybe she's taunting me with scribbles she knows I can't understand. I stare at the symbols, waiting for them to suddenly make sense, but I know they never will. I clench my teeth, frustrated. I don't know who else can read around here. Probably not Chuckles. Maybe Three, but he'd just give me another lecture about Handmaidens. Anuket's out of the question. The other Handmaidens might be able to read, but what if it says something horrible about me? Something that could get me killed if Anuket found out? The only person I know who can safely read it is… Trace. But it's too late for that. Besides, it could be a trick. A way for me to fall back into her snare. Make me come crawling back.

I stare at the paper blankly for a few more seconds, wishing Simon were here. Then again, if Simon were here, he'd probably tell me to go apologize to Trace right now. He was always the more naive between the two of us. It doesn't matter, anyway. He's not here. I'm on my own.

I fold up the paper and tuck it into a pocket in my pants. With any luck, I'll forget about it by morning. I force myself to lie down on the bed. I need some rest if I'm going to be in fighting shape tomorrow. I lie on my side, keeping an eye on the doorway, listening for footsteps in the hall that never come. As my eyelids grow heavier, the events of the day replay in my mind. Talked back to a goddess, got a bath, and ate two different meals. A long day. A good day, too, by Wasteland standards. Why don't I feel good about it, then? I start thinking about what tomorrow might be like instead. It'll probably be a tough fight if Anuket is sending three Road Warriors to take care of it. I don't know how much help Chuckles will be, though. Just as long as he doesn't get himself killed…


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The Wasteland is brighter and hotter than I remember. The sand looks almost white, and the tribals are like shadows dancing on the ground. They come at us all at once, nearly blotting out the sun. It's a hard fight, harder than any I've been through before. Blood drips and splashes onto the ground, staining the sands all the way to the horizon. I try to stay close to Chuckles, but I lose him in the sea of struggling bodies. I don't have time to care as another group lunges at me. It feels good to fight again, to let my body flow through each attack, to feel my knife slide through and across flesh. It's a rush, and I lose myself in it. Before long, I'm completely covered in blood, and it's a hundred times better than any bath.

Suddenly, a hand grasps my shoulder from behind. Without hesitation, I spin around and plunge my knife into the assailant. He cries out in pain and surprise before dropping to the ground. The Wasteland goes quiet. That was the last one.

I wipe the red from my eyes. Chuckles looks up at me from the ground, his body battered and bleeding at my feet. I stare into his empty eyes in shock and horror. My stomach heaves - not from the gore, but from the guilt. He's dead. I killed him.

"Roman!" Three's harsh voice cuts through the sound of my heart hammering in my ear. I turn to see him standing there, close and far away at the same time. He gazes at me with an unreadable expression.

"I didn't mean to," I say, my panic rising. "I thought he was a… I… We can't go back to Anuket!"

The Cyclops reaches into his pocket and takes out his die. Without a word, he crouches and tosses it across the bloodied sand. The world slows down. The small, white cube bounces again and again, turning red where it collides with the ground. Finally, rolls to a stop. Three looks at the result for a moment, nods to himself, and returns the die to his pocket.

"What did it say?" I demand to know. The Road Warrior looks at me but doesn't answer. "Three, what did it tell you to do?"

"Sorry, Roman," he replies.

"Sorry for what? What are you going to do?"

He turns around and begins walking toward his vehicle.

"Answer me!" I shout after him. "Three!"

I call out again and again, but he never answers. My stomach goes cold. Fear. Is he going back to Anuket? What will he tell her? Will she send more Road Warriors after me? I don't know what to do. I don't know anything. What do I do? What do I do?!

Suddenly, my fear vanishes. Everything loses sound except the pounding in my ear. I feel calm - peaceful, even. I sheathe my knife and pull out my pistol. Then I take aim and shoot Three in the back. He shouts and goes down. Still alive. I walk over to him. He struggles to take out his gun. Without a word, I grab his hair with my free hand, pulling his head up. I jam my pistol into his one eye and shoot him through the head. He collapses back into the sand as I release his hair.

The wind picks up, cutting through the drumming in my ear. Storm coming. My hair blows into my face, obscuring my view of Three's corpse. I hardly notice.

"Roman! Roman!"

A voice calls out my name over the howl of the wind. I turn around and see Trace running towards me through the swirling sand. She's wearing that see-through uniform again, but this time there's something else on her arm. She smiles brightly, not seeming to notice the bodies or the blood. Maybe she doesn't care. As she nears me, I raise my gun. She stops, and her smile vanishes. Her eyes fill with fear and uncertainty.

"Roman, what are you doing?" she cries. "Are you okay? I brought you -"

"Are you here to kill me?" I interrupt, glaring at her.

"What? No, I… You left your scarf on the table. I thought you might want it, so -"

 _Song and dance._

"Stop lying," I command. "Anuket sent you to kill me, yeah?"

"Roman, stop talking like that! Look, your scarf. Please, just take it."

She begins untangling the yellow fabric from her arm. As she pulls her hand free, I see that she's grasping something. A weapon. A knife. I pull the trigger without another thought. Trace screams and falls to the ground. I close the distance between us. She's writhing in the dirt, clutching her stomach with one hand. Blood gushes through the gown and between her fingers. I point my pistol at her head. Then I notice her other hand. The knife lies close by.

Suddenly, it's not a knife anymore. It's a piece of paper wrapped around two pencils. I stare at it. Time slows down again. The drumming in my ear gets louder and louder, drowning out the roar of the rising storm and Trace's crying. Just when I think my skull's about to explode, it stops. My head clears, and I gasp, realizing I've been holding my breath.

"Roman…"

My eyes snap back to the Handmaiden's face. She's not squirming anymore, just staring up at me with those big, blue eyes. I holster my pistol and drop to my knees beside her.

"Trace, I'm… I can fix this," I stammer. "Just stay with me. Stay with me, yeah?"

I grab the scarf from the ground and press it against the hole in her stomach. It turns red in an instant, covering my drying hands with fresh blood.

"I don't know what happened," I say, raising my voice to be heard over the screaming wind. "Something… something's wrong with me. I killed both of them, and now I -"

"I just wanted to… to teach you how to write your… your name." She cuts in, heartbroken. Her voice is soft, but somehow I can hear her perfectly over the storm. It's like she's speaking in my mind. "I… I thought you were different. How could you do this? How could…"

The life drains from her eyes. The fear, the pain, and the innocence are replaced by nothing at all. I stare at her corpse, unable to move or even think. The storm rages around us, but the sand doesn't cover her body. Nature itself refuses to touch her, to cover her over and erase her from existence. So I stay there, looking into her lifeless eyes, wishing the madness would take me again so I could feel nothing.

"Hey, Roman," a rough, monotone voice calls from behind me. "Get up."

I whirl around to see Three. His skin has turned a sickly, pale green, already starting to rot away. His eyepatch is gone, and both of his empty eye sockets are gushing red. He doesn't seem to care. He stares at me without eyes, completely emotionless. In his hands is his shotgun, aimed right at my head. Anuket steps out from behind him, seeming impossibly tall. She towers over me, baring her white teeth is a horrific smile of triumph. Her sharp, green eyes burn into my skull. She puts a hand on Three's shoulder, her nails painted with blood. My heart feels like it stops. I struggle to breathe, to stand, to run, to do anything. But it's too late.

"Time to go," Three says as he pulls the trigger.

I gasp and sit up, looking around wildly. The sand and corpses are gone, replaced by a stone floor and too much furniture. Eden. Anuket's palace. Guest room. My hand is at my waist, grasping for a pistol that isn't there. Blind, undead Three vanishes, revealing Three the Cyclops standing in the doorway. Beside the old man are Chuckles and the pale, redheaded Handmaiden. I gaze at them with wide eyes, trying to catch my breath as the nightmare fades away. Three doesn't react to my awakening; in all his days as a Road Warrior, I'm sure he's suffered far worse visions in the night. Chuckles looks excited, ignoring my panicked state as he struggles to maintain the frown on his face. The Handmaiden simply watches me with the same placid, innocent expression of her peers.

"Sir, there is no time to sleep when there is glory waiting for us on the Fury Road!" Chuckles says with childlike enthusiasm.

"Is there anything last minute you require of me, Road Warrior?" the Handmaiden asks politely.

"No," I mumble, suddenly feeling embarrassed. I don't look like much of a brave Road Warrior right now. "I'm fine."

I scramble to get out of bed, trying to push away the still-vivid nightmare from my mind. I haven't had a dream that bad since right after Simon and Cord died. As I get to my feet, I feel the stitches pulling against the skin of my thigh. Trace told me she'd check on them in the morning, but she's not here. I feel strangely relieved. I don't really want to see her again after last night. Three might catch on that something happened, and I don't want him doubting me right before our mission. I could ask this Handmaiden to take a look at the wound, but I'd rather just get out of here as soon as possible. Long as I'm careful, the stitches should hold. I hurry to put on my boots, jacket, and scarf.

"All right," I say, nodding at Three and Chuckles. "Let's go."

Three returns the nod - the Wasteland sign of understanding or respect. In this case, I'm sure it's the former. Chuckles scampers down the hallway, unable to wait any longer. Three and I follow as the Handmaiden tails us. I glance over at the old Road Warrior as we go. The purple underneath his eye is even darker. I wonder if he slept at all. He looks a little on edge, too. Most men would fear going up against the unknown; Three looks mildly stressed, and Chuckles looks eager. I'm somewhere in the middle - glad to be getting out of the palace but afraid of what might happen out there. What if I lose myself, like in the dream?

The walk down the now familiar hallway seems much shorter this time. As we enter the throne room, a wave of damp, fragrant air once again washes over us. I still don't recognize the smell. Maybe it's from one of the flowers I've never seen until coming here. I scan the room. Anuket and the other Handmaidens are nowhere in sight. Guess the Goddess doesn't think it worth her time to see us off. That's fine by me; I'm in no hurry to see her again.

"Godspeed, Road Warriors," the redheaded Handmaiden says with reverence.

Chuckles halts and turns around to face her. Three and I follow suit.

"We hope to see your return," she concludes, standing at the entrance of the hall.

"We shall return victorious, covered in the blood of Lady Anuket's enemies!" Chuckles exclaims, pounding his chest with one hand. "And shall live to see many more battles!"

"I would hope so, former Blackthumb," the woman replies pleasantly. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"Chuckles, ma'am." He holds his head high proudly.

"Upon your success, Chuckles, I shall grant you your Warrior name. Is that acceptable?"

Chuckles takes a knee. He makes the sign of the V8 over his head, meshing the fingers of both hands together and pointing the fingers toward the ceiling.

"It would be more than an honor, ma'am!"

"Excellent. Now go make Lady Anuket proud."

Chuckles jumps up and darts down the stairs before the woman even finishes speaking. Three simply nods and grunts at the Handmaiden before turning to follow the young Road Warrior. I say nothing and head after them. We travel down the stairs and exit the palace, trading the electric glow and moss for harsh sunlight and rock. It's early morning, but the Wasteland is already completely bathed in light and heating up fast. Outside the palace entrance, the same Crocodiles from yesterday return our belongings. They glare coldly and silently at us as we arm ourselves. Again, Chuckles dashes ahead as soon as possible, running through the lush upper city and down steep stairs. We hurry after him, taking no time to admire the greenery this time.

We return to the cages. The Blackthumbs stay out of our way, but I see several of them staring at Chuckles and elbowing each other. Their frowns make me think they're angry that he was chosen by the Goddess for this mission, but they're probably just hiding their jealousy. As devoted as they may be to their Goddess, I can't imagine they love being slaves.

Chuckles disappears into a garage on the far side of the cages. Three jumps in his truck; moments later, the engine roars to life. Despite my nerves, I'm excited to see his ride in action. Maybe I can learn a few things.

I head to my car, which looks the same as it did yesterday. No more thieves tried to make off with it, or the Blackthumbs would be clamoring for more bloodshed. The dog is lying underneath the vehicle, avoiding the light of the rising sun. As I approach, he gets up and wags his tail at me.

"No more food yet," I say to the dog as I untie his leash from the mirror. "Gotta get through this job first, yeah?"

I open the door, motioning for the animal to get inside. He jumps over the driver seat and gets into the back, panting in the heat. He doesn't seem like much of a fighter, and he's too scrawny to be intimidating. He did try to bite my hand yesterday, though, so maybe there's hope for him. As he curls up on the floor of the car, I reach for the chicken wire I got from the merchant Yale yesterday. I hastily string it up over the busted windows, bending and twisting it around the door frames and cutting off the extra with wire cutters from the thief's toolset. It's not much, but it might be enough to make someone think twice before trying to jump inside. I should be able to knock it out easily enough if I need to get out of the window in a hurry for some reason. As for the barbed wire, I do my best to stretch it over the top of my ride. It's nowhere near the amount Three has covering his truck, but it's a start.

I get into the vehicle and shut the door, patting the dash fondly as I settle into the driver seat. Feels good to be back behind the wheel. I start the engine with a smile, but that fades away when I see Chuckles. The rookie Road Warrior rolls out of the garage on a rusty motorcycle that looks like it's barely holding itself together. His only weapons are his small pistol and a metal bat sticking out of a saddlebag strapped precariously to the vehicle. He again struggles to keep his signature scowl in place as the bike's engine sputters and finally catches. He looks like he's could ditch the vehicle at any moment and dance his way into battle.

"I'm so dead," I sigh under my breath. The vision of his mangled corpse appears in my mind again, this time torn apart by savages he was no match for. I blink the image away. Focus.

"Everyone ready?" Chuckles calls, reaching into his bag and pulling out a baseball cap with barbed wire wrapped around the brim. I resist the urge to roll my eyes as he places it over his bald, tanned head. I simply nod when he looks my way.

"As I'll ever be," Three mutters, barely audible over the engines.

"Good, let's go! I'll lead the way to the site!" Chuckles proclaims, adjusting his cap before taking off down the small hill.

Time to get this show on the Road.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Happy April Fool's Day, everyone! I doubt any of you were truly fooled by that dream sequence, but Roman sure was. Thanks to everyone for reading this story so far. Special thanks this week to SirReaper56 for the review. All thoughts and constructive criticism are always welcome here, whether in a review or a PM. Coming up next: we finally get out of Eden, and a dangerous mystery begins. Stay tuned.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

We peel away from the cages, leaving the sanctuary of Eden behind. It's a cooler day in the Wastes, even as the sun rises higher. The heat is still blistering, but not nearly as bad as usual. I breathe the dusty Wasteland air, wide awake despite my rough night. It feels a little strange to be out in the hot, dry Wastes after spending a night in the cool, damp upper city. For a moment, when I was submerged in the water of that pool, I almost forgot what it was like out here. Like it was all a bad dream. But no matter how much of a break I get, this is my reality in the end. I belong out here, fighting for my life, not learning how to read in some city. Terrifying as it is, this is my world. Anuket might not be so wrong about me after all.

Chuckles's route leads us around the outside of the lower city, avoiding the market and all its pedestrians. From there, it's a short drive west to the outskirts of Anuket's territory. We pass between several shacks made out of old, metal trailers with their wheels removed. There aren't nearly as many people out here as in the market, so we don't have to slow down much. The people in our way simply scramble to the side as we race by. Some of them curse, others stare. The smart ones ignore us completely. For the wretched souls struggling to survive out here, avoiding Road Warriors means avoiding trouble.

When we reach the edge of the village, the scenery changes. The trailers here lie in various states of ruin, and there are no people in sight. Four or five of the shacks have been completely reduced to piles of scorched scrap. Old bloodstains are splattered on the sand and metal.

We brake to a halt and kill our engines. Chuckles climbs off his motorcycle and begins looking around. Three and I join him. The dog follows me, sniffing at the burnt metal and dried blood. There are other things, too: clothes, bits of furniture, empty cans. No weapons. No bodies.

"Well, what do you think?" Three asks, picking up a tattered shirt covered in ash.

"I see tracks - bike tracks!" Chuckles shouts, stooping over some marks in the sand. "That means either Mozzies or Blackthumbs. I'm willing to bet Mozzies."

"Roman and I killed a whole lot of them. Their numbers are probably weak."

"Nonsense, there are dozens of individual Mozzie tribes around here!" Chuckles claims. "The biggest group of tribals in the southern Empire."

"Then how come I so rarely fight them?" The Cyclops seems unconvinced.

"They are usually too busy fighting each other to raid us," Chuckles explains quickly. He drops down onto his stomach to examine the tracks, enthralled by the investigation. "This fits them, though: small hit and run on the outskirts of civilization."

"No, it doesn't," the old Road Warrior objects, sounding a little irritated. He points at a patch of red in the sand. "Look. Blood. Mozzies don't spill blood if they can help it, and this is quite a bit here. This was pure, brutal murder."

"Mozzies I ran into came at me with syringes," I chime in, rubbing the place on my neck where they shot me. "They weren't interested in killing me right away."

"They do that," Chuckles confirms. "They use some funky shit in syringes to knock people out. Then they keep them alive and drain their blood to either drink or use for blood transfusions. Then they eat the flesh."

"So Mozzies would take the bodies, sure, but Three's right about the blood. Doesn't make sense. Unless the people here put up a decent fight and managed to spill some Mozzie blood, I'd say we're dealing with something else," I conclude.

"Some tribal variant? Extremists? Hatred for these specific people? Who cares? They are all filthy savages," Chuckles says dismissively as he gets to his feet, sand clinging to his bare chest. He points to the horizon. "The trail leads northwest. Let's follow it as long as we can. If we lose it, let's see if your new mutt is worth anything and can track."

I nod. The dog wags his tail at Chuckles, like he somehow knows the young Road Warrior is talking about him.

"Northwest of here, there is a lot of hills and cliffsides with lots of caverns," Three informs us with his usual monotone. "They are probably up on a high cliff or hiding in deep passages, whoever they are. They have the home terrain advantage. If they have a vantage point, they can spot us from miles away and either rain death upon on us or clear out of there. Or if they are in the caves, we will never find them between guerilla attacks."

"Are you suggesting attacking raiders is _dangerous_ , Three?" Chuckles feigns surprise, sneering at the grizzled Road Warrior.

"I'm _saying_ we need an intelligent plan to not go in guns blazing, you ass," Three retorts, visibly offended. He scowls at the younger man. "Will we get torn up if we walk into a gauntlet."

" _If_ they are even in that region. They could easily lie far past it, or their trail could turn and lead somewhere else. We can't make a plan if we don't even know where they are yet!" Chuckles protests. Despite his determined expression, however, his voice sounds much less confident.

"Look, northwest is our best bet right now," I pipe up. I figured this job would be tough, but I didn't count on having to deal with these two going at it. Guess I forgot what it can be like to work with other people. "I say we assume they're in those cliffs. Turns out they're not there, we just track them to wherever they did go. Better to waste time than blood."

"Yeah," agrees Three. "But what's the _plan_? We don't know how many scouts and spotters they have, and we don't know what weapons they use. We could be shot before we even get to the cliffs."

I get the feeling he'd rather just let his die to decide what we do. Or maybe he's testing us - waiting to see what the younger Road Warriors can come up with. A man that as much experience as Three must have tracked an unknown group before. Or maybe he just rolled that cube and got lucky.

"I see no bullet casings," Chuckles answers. "That means they didn't use firearms. So cudgels, most likely."

"Could have other weapons stashed in those caves," I remind him. "Just because they didn't use guns here doesn't mean they won't use them on us, and we'll be dead before we even get close."

"We got a legendary Road Warrior and a wandering Mozzie-slayer and his dog!" Chuckles exclaims, growing impatient. He raises his arms and gestures dramatically to Three and me. "No tribe can stand up to you two. We will be fine if we just charge them."

"I would say I didn't get a reputation for being reckless," Three sighs, giving in. "But that's exactly how I got it."

"Excellent!" Chuckles cries, adjusting his stupid hat again. "What do you think, Blonde? Are you a risk-taker?"

"Not if I can help it," I say, shaking my head reluctantly. "But…"

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortable. This whole situation makes me anxious. Normally, I just do whatever I think of first. It's gotten me this far, but this is more complicated than anything I've had to face alone. I don't like not knowing who I'm fighting.

"Don't see a way around it," I continue, shrugging. "Not unless one of us wants to go in first to see if they get shot full of holes. I don't."

"We're not sending in bait," Three states. "We're a team."

I raise an eyebrow at him, genuinely surprised. I didn't take Three for a team player kind of guy, but he seems confident enough working with us. As I stare, trying yet again to figure him out, the Cyclops pulls an object out of the pocket. I sigh inwardly, waiting for him to roll that stupid die after all. To my surprise, it's just his cigarette box. Guess he at least he trusts us enough to make a decision for him. Or maybe he doesn't really care. Three looks inside the box, then sighs frustratedly and returns it to his jacket. Must be empty. No wonder he's on edge.

"A team! Exactly!" Chuckles shouts, thrilled to be counted alongside more seasoned Road Warriors. "The more of us are attacking, the less likely they are to take us all out. Let's just go in and play it by ear. You two took out a whole Mozzie tribe! Judging by the size of this raid, these guys can't be any bigger than a tribe."

"Fine," I agree, forcing the misgivings out of my head. It's not much of a plan, sure, but it's the best we got.

Three heads toward his truck, and I pull the dog away from the rubble and back to my car. Chuckles brushes the sand from his slim torso before mounting his bike.

"You all right on that thing, or do you wanna ride with me?" I call to the rookie. "Can't have you dying, yeah?"

"I'm fine on my bike," Chuckles insists, lifting his chin up proudly.

"If it doesn't fall apart," I mutter under my breath, giving Chuckles's ride a skeptical glance.

At least he'll be a small target. If these attackers are smart, they'll focus on taking out the bigger vehicles first. Three will definitely be the main target. His truck makes my car look as fragile as Chuckles's bike in comparison. Then again, if they end up having sharpshooters, Chuckles will be picked off in seconds. I take a deep breath and tell myself he'll be fine. He'll be just fine. Maybe I am a risk-taker after all.

The dog hops into my car, and I follow. He sits in the passenger seat this time, wagging his tail wildly.

"Unless you're gonna help me shoot, stay in the back." I reach a hand out to shove him into the backseat, but he snarls and tries to bite my fingers. I sigh and give up. No sense in getting myself hurt before the actual fighting starts.

I take out the pistol and set it on my lap. The revolver, crossbow, and rifle get thrown into what space is left in the passenger seat next to the dog, along with extra ammo. He looks down at the weaponry and wags his tail again.

"Better not try to bite me when I'm reaching for those, yeah?" I warn him as I start the engine.

Three's truck roars and lurches forward, heading northwest along the tracks. I step on the gas and follow after him. Chuckles keeps pace with me, letting Three have the lead this time. Not so eager to be out in the front anymore now that we're closer to danger, I see. At least he has some good instincts.

We leave the settlement behind, tearing across open desert on our way to the cliffs. Sand pours into my car through the chicken wire, getting into my eyes and making the rusty, worn interior even dirtier. Maybe the Blackthumbs could help me upgrade some things when I get back. If I decide to work for Anuket more, I'll never run low on replacement parts. That could be how Three got such a nice ride.

I drive on high alert, which makes every moment feel like an eternity. My guzzolene gauge barely moves, but I can't tell if that's because we haven't actually gone very far or because it's busted again. At some point, the ground becomes rougher. The sand gives way to pebbles, which send up clouds of dust under our tires. We must be close now.

Suddenly, Three's heavy vehicle screeches to a halt in front of me. I slam on the breaks, and Chuckles skids and swerves to a stop beside me. As I brush the grit from my eyes, I see Three step out of his vehicle, shotgun in his hands. My vision clears, and I finally see what made him stop.

In the distance, an enormous cloud of thick, dark smoke rises from behind rocky hills and cliffs. The uneven terrain prevents us from seeing the source, but the pillar of smog is so big I figure an entire village must be burning. Looking up, I see black forms dancing through the smoke, circling high above the hills. Birds. Hundreds of birds.

I scramble out of the car, pistol in my hand. The dog stays behind, staring out at the smoke with his ears flat against his head. I can't remember the last time I saw so many birds in one place. Watching them swoop through the smoke makes me uneasy, though I don't exactly know why. It's like the smoke is alive.

"Think they're burning the bodies they took? Or they got attacked by someone else?" I ask, moving to stand beside Three.

"I have no idea," Three replies slowly, not taking his eye from the smog. "I have never seen that much smoke before."

"It looks like burning tires and bad exhaust times ten," Chuckles calls. I look over my shoulder to see him leaning against the handlebars of his bike.

When I turn back, Three has taken the die from his pocket. He rolls it across the hood of his truck. Guess he's done waiting around for us to make a plan.

"It doesn't change anything," the Cyclops says, scooping up the cube before I can see the number. "We need to keep moving."

I nod, deciding not to comment on the rolling this time around - but only because I agree that we need to keep going. But if he thinks that thing can keep making decisions for all of us, we're gonna have words.

"Agreed." Chuckles maintains his forced frown, but his eyes are sparkling with curiosity and excitement. "Hopefully a rival tribe has already done half our work for us."

"Or something worse is waiting over there," I say, tearing my eyes away from the birds and starting back towards my car. We'll find out soon enough.

I get in and slam the door, hoping we don't have any more stops on the way there. The sooner I can see what we're up against, the better. I also hope those flying things clear out before we arrive. I haven't had much experience with birds, but I don't think I like them very much. I prefer things to stay on the ground where I can deal with them.

We continue towards the smoke with Three still in the lead. The dark smog grows thicker and the birds get louder with every passing car length. We reach the first set of cliffs, racing through a maze of rocky passes. I scan each crevice for the glint of a firearm. Nothing. No signs of life at all.

Over the growl of our vehicles, I start to hear roaring fires and idling engines. Whoever did this is still here. As we draw closer and closer, I feel my adrenaline starting to kick in. My hands grip the wheel tightly, and my heart speeds up. More black birds come into view. These ones roost on rocks and ledges above us, eerily silent.

Three pulls over beside one of the cliffs. What's making him stop this time? He'd better not be trying to roll that damn cube again. I grunt frustratedly and follow his lead alongside Chuckles. The rookie and I glance at each other through the wire in my windows. The young man's scowl has started to crack, revealing both enthusiasm and anxiety. I gaze back at him with what I hope is a look of confidence, but I've never been very good at hiding fear.

The Cyclops steps out of his ride and walks over to our vehicles. As he opens his mouth to speak, a loud, crackling noise pierces the air, cutting him off. The birds in the cliffs all take flight at once, darkening the sky above us for a moment before returning to the rocks. I duck instinctively, even though I'm inside a car.

The noise screams out again, dispersing the birds once more. I recognize it as static. Like a radio, but much louder. Three whirls around, looking for the source but finding nothing. The crackling bounces off the cliffs, making it impossible to tell where it's coming from. I get out of my car slowly, eyeing the agitated birds as they flutter above my head. I definitely don't like birds.

Suddenly, a man's voice cuts through the static, booming against the rocks.

" _And when the lamb broke the third seal… I heard the third living creature say… say, 'Come and see!' And I looked, and I saw a… a black truck. And its rider. Its rider held a pair of dice in its hands…"_

My eyes snap to Three. _A black truck._ _Dice._ Whoever it is, they know about the Cyclops. He's well-known around here, I think, but how did they know Anuket would send him this way? Could this entire thing be a setup? My hand tightens around my pistol.

" _Come and see,"_ the voice repeats tauntingly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

The static cuts out, leaving only the sounds of fire, engines, and birds. The black beasts near the cliffs return to roost, looking down at us with glossy, unblinking eyes.

"What the hell was that?" I demand to know.

"It sounds like our friend knows of me," Three responds. His voice is bland, but he holds his shotgun with a white-knuckled grip. "He must have had scouts who saw my truck and recognized me."

"Do you know who this guy is, Three?" Chuckles asks, gulping audibly as he stares up at the birds.

"Not a clue. Road Warriors aren't the type of people to have living enemies. Conflicts are ended early between us." Three pauses, eyeing the smoke. "I would guess a rookie Road Warrior who wants to prove himself by killing me. He doesn't seem too fazed by the fact I have two others with me, though."

"Arrogant," Chuckles scoffs.

"Or good," Three solemnly replies.

I can feel the eyes of the birds watching us from the ledges. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Back in the car, the dog whines softly.

"What now?" I ask, trying to keep calm. The last thing we need right now is for one of us to lose it. "He's ready for us over there, and we can't see a damn thing."

Before anyone can answer, the wind picks up, and a horrid smell suddenly washes over us. It's one I easily recognize: burning flesh. I suppress a gag and pull my scarf up over my mouth and nose. The stench sends the birds into a frenzy. They squawk like bloodlusted raiders and dive from the cliffs, flocking to our vehicles. Inside my car, the dog goes into a howling fit. I rush over and swat at the birds, trying to scare them off. Chuckles swings at the flying monsters with his bat, cursing. Three opens fire on a cluster near his truck, shredding the beasts with several small metallic coins. The rest of the birds panic, flying up high to circle us overhead.

"Trying to intimidate us," Three growls, noticeably agitated. He pumps his shotgun and ejects the shell. "Anyone who needs to rely on scare tactics can't be much of a fighter. He is trying to scare us off."

"I say we go throw that bastard onto the pyre he's trying to intimidate us with," Chuckles suggests, making a disgusted face at the stench.

The sharp static pierces the air once more, making me flinch. Again, a voice speaks through the distortion.

" _And the pagans will be… thrown into a fiery furnace… where there will be… weeping and the gnashing of beaks."_

The voice goes silent, but the static continues to fill the air. Then, after an uncomfortably long pause,

" _Come and see."_

The crackling stops again. Three glares toward the smoke. Chuckles brushes blood and feathers from his shoulders, his frown replaced with a look of genuine anger.

"Let's go see what this little shit wants us to see," the former Blackthumb snarls. "Then kill him and all his fucking birds."

"Couldn't agree more," I say, my voice deadly calm now. I'm ready to kill this guy, whoever he is. His damn birds touched my car and spooked my dog. He's gotta go. I turn to Three. "Let's gut this fan of yours, yeah?"

"Age before beauty," Three replies, attempting what I think is supposed to be a smile. Makes him look like he's in pain.

We return to our vehicles with renewed vigor. This guy likes a show, that's for sure. That's probably why we haven't been ambushed: he wants to face Three head-on. Makes him very stupid or very powerful. Maybe both. Either way, he'll get more than what he bargained for with us. We're a team, after all. Three said it himself.

A new sound joins the already chaotic mix. A rhythmic thumping, but not of pistons driving or rifles firing. Drums. The birds above us stop circling and head toward the smoke, flapping their wings to the beat of the drum. We follow them through the twisting passes between cliffs. With every passing moment, the pounding gets louder and closer. My dog desperately whimpers and paws at the wheel, as if asking me to turn around. I ignore him and focus on the smoke. The source should be in view any moment now.

A small valley opens up, framed by natural rock walls. Here, we begin to see the true nature of the people we're dealing with. Dismembered human body parts litter the ground: hands, arms, legs, feet, fingers. Some of the carnage is burnt. Everything is being feasted upon by more of horrible birds. I didn't know so many of the creatures could even exist. I swallow nervously as I watch them tear greedily into the sinew. They make no sound.

The drumming continues slowly, methodically.

The birds' silence is broken when two of them on a boulder begin fighting for bits of a human finger. The pair is loud and flashy, spreading their glossy black wings to make themselves look bigger. They scream in each other's faces to show ferocity. They hop and stomp on the rock like a child throwing a tantrum. At last, one backs down, leaving the other to his meal. As we pass by, the beasts stop their feasting to stare at is. It may be a trick of the light, but they appear to be making eye contact with me. I look away, trying to keep my breathing steady.

The beat speeds up.

At the edge of the valley, one last warning lies before us: an executed burn victim with its arms outstretched. The corpse is held in place on a ten-foot metal cross by screws driven through the hands and feet. Blackened debris is piled up at the base of the pole, helping to hold it up. The flesh is burnt charcoal black with bits of red meat exposed. The head is thrown back, and the charred mouth is agape in a permanent scream of agony. Hanging from the screw through both feet is a long banner with words I can't read. My stomach twists.

The drumming grows incredibly loud as we pass through the final row of cliffs at the end of the valley.

Rounding the corner, the land opens up into flat, featureless sand. At long last, we see the source of the smoke. Four more executed individuals are hung up in the same position as the first, but these are still in the processes of burning. Black smoke rises from their corpses, fueling the dark cloud in the sky. Several twisted vehicles are piled up and also alight, adding the smell of burning oil and rubber to the already sickening stench. Nearby, a shallow mass grave lies open, revealing a dozen dead bodies being picked apart by birds. We drive between the carnage, temporarily blinded by smoke. I cough and wipe stinging tears from my eyes, holding back the bile attempting to boil up from my gut. My heart beats in my ear almost as loudly as the drums.

We emerge through the smoke. To our right, a mass of metal comes into view. I slam on my brakes and turn sharply to the side, skidding to a stop with my hood facing the threat. Three and Chuckles pull up on either side of me. Before us sit five trucks, each painted a glistening chrome. Most of the metal has the texture of rust and is heavily scratched or dented, but all the imperfections have simply been painted over. Behind the windshield, each truck has a driver and a passenger. All of them are dressed in brown leather jackets and have long hair arranged in thick braids. They stare back at us, snarling with scarred faces. The engines of their shiny vehicles growl and sputter under the hoods, but I can barely hear them over the sound of drums coming from the truck beds. There men with long, white hair pound on large drums with mallets. They beat their instruments in perfect unison, creating a frantic, booming heartbeat for the War Party.

But none of that compares to the truly massive Engine of War parked between the trucks. The machine was once a diesel locomotive, but it's been converted into a massive land vehicle with wheels large enough to crush my car. Above the wheels, the body is long and rounded, like a gigantic bullet. The entire Rig has been painted a deep, dark black that seems to completely absorb all light that touches. Long, thick chains hang from the sides like metal curtains, nearly touching the tire guards above the terrifying wheels. On the hood of the vehicle, a few exposed V8 engines gleam proudly in the sun from. Below them, a small car has been chained to the front of the Rig to serve as a plow. That has also been painted black - even the bar of lights across the top and the large spotlight attached to the side.

Hitched up behind the War Machine is a large, black semi trailer with holes all over it. The kind once used to haul animals, I think. At least fifteen men are crawling across the sides of the trailer, preventing me from seeing through the holes. These men have the same braids as the truckers, but their clothes vary from stained rags to thick coats.

Then I see him. Standing on top of the War Rig is the unmistakable leader. He is tall and muscular, draped in a brown coat that stretches down below his knees. The garment has a tall collar covered in fur that moves in the wind. The man's deep, blue eyes are noticeable even from where we are - as is his sharp, angular facial structure. His black hair is shaved in the back and long and unkempt in the front. On his shoulder sits one of the birds - a large one whose black feathers match the deep black of the Rig. The leader holds a pickaxe in one hand, in the other a large, metal shield.

The drumming stops.

I feel my stomach curl in on itself at the sight of it all - the birds, the corpses, the Rig, drummers, the man. The sweat on my hands turns cold against the steering wheel. Even faced with Anuket, a Goddess with incredible power, I didn't feel like this. In the pit of my stomach, in my heart, in my head - it's fear.

 _Trying to intimidate us,_ Three's voice echoes in my head. _Trying to scare us off._

I grit my teeth behind the scarf, determined to stay calm. Beside me, the dog whines and lowers his head, staring up with wide eyes at the man standing above it all. The dog doesn't move, even when my fingers accidentally brush against his leg. On my left, Three has his shotgun aimed out his window at the man, ready to fire. On my right, Chuckles grips his handgun tightly, ready to draw at a moment's notice. The man with blue eyes does not flinch or raise his shield. None of his men budge or make a sound.

"And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder," the leader shouts down at us, no longer needing the machine to make himself heard. His voice is deep, but it lacks Three's roughness. It's more like Anuket's - sharp, powerful, completely confident. "One of the four beasts saying, 'Come and see.' And I saw, and behold! He went out conquering, and to conquer."

He's like a bird himself, this man. His eyes are piercing and his voice is loud. He perches on top of his machine, ready to take flight and swoop down on us at any moment. And I hate him, just like I hate the birds.

"Who the hell are you?" Chuckles yells back.

"My name is Vates," the man replies. There is some anger in his voice now, along with something else. He almost sounds sad.

"That supposed to mean something, freak?" Three shouts up at him, unimpressed.

"I would hope so, Three. I am an apprentice of one of your previous business partners. Did you not recognize the Holy text or crucifixion?"

"What's he talkin' about, Three?" Chuckles asks. There is a slight tremble in his voice.

"Bishop?" the Cyclops calls up after a moment.

"The student is not above the teacher, but everyone who is fully trained should be like their teacher," Vates replies, not giving a straight answer.

Three does not respond. Chuckles stays silent, but his eyes grow wide. I furrow my brows, confused. Trace mentioned something about a Bishop, I think. So did Chuckles. Someone who used to work for Anuket, but not anymore. If he has anything to do with the Three and the Goddess, he's probably just as skilled as the Cyclops. But all this carnage? Holy text? Must have gone insane. Any student of his would have to be just as crazy.

"My acolytes are ready for this, Three. This will be the greatest Road War any of us have ever seen. The outcome…" Vates pauses. "Not important. If we succeed in defeating Three the Cyclops and an instrument of God, we will have brought great honor to ourselves, our faith, and our family. If we fail, well, there is no shame in falling to two mighty Road Warriors. We shall ride eternal."

It sounds like a call to War, but his men don't cheer or even make the sign of the V8. They just sit there, waiting. Suddenly, the man called Vates makes eye contact directly with me. His blue eyes pierce right into my head, like he's trying to read my thoughts. I level my gaze at him through the windshield, refusing to look away even as my heart pounds in my chest.

"I have seen you," Vates proclaims. "My God has given me visions of a blonde warrior traveling with a great monster, carried on a red stallion. You are destined to destroy me, if you are the true agent of fate I believe you to be."

I narrow my eyes. He wants to fight _me_? I've only been here for a couple days, and all I've done is almost die to some Mozzies. No way he could have heard of me. I glance over at the dog, who is panting in the heat and continuing to stare up at Vates. Doesn't look like any great monster to me. Agent of fate? Instrument of God? Bullshit. This man is mad if he thinks some higher power sent him visions of me, but there's no point in telling him that. I'm here to fight, not to talk.

The War Rig roars to life, shaking the ground and scattering the birds, including the one on Vates's shoulder. I feel the vibrations of the terrifying machine in my chest. The drumming starts back up, working its way into my blood, syncing with my heartbeat. I struggle to keep my breathing steady. How are we supposed to take down something like this?

"Three, Agent, Blackthumb," Vates calls through the loudspeaker, his voice soaring above the chaos. "Any words before we begin?"

I take a deep breath and look out my window.

"Think we've heard enough!" I shout to Chuckles and Three over the noise. "Let's go, yeah?"

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has been checking out this story. Special thanks this week to Funnyman141 for the follow. Next week: War. Stay tuned.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Before my teammates can respond, Vates raises the pickaxe above his head. A loud siren pierces the air, crying out from the War Rig. The birds scream and caw along with it; the horrible noise nearly drowns out the engines. Then the siren fades for a brief moment, and the drums fill the space with two short beats.

 _Bang bang!_

The siren howls again, even louder. This time, it's joined by new sounds. Rising from behind the drums in the truck beds are men playing instruments hooked up to amplifiers. Doofs. Like the drummers, they also have long, white hair. Two of the instruments are guitars - one with axe blades attached to the body, and the other with an ammo belt in place of a strap. The third Doof's instrument looks like a giant guitar; it stands nearly as tall as the man himself, and he plays it by pushing and pulling some kind of rod across the strings. The final man's fingers dance across long strings set in curved, open frame. Together, the stringed instruments cry out as the siren quiets. Once again, the drums pound.

 _Bang bang!_

The cycle of sounds, this War song, repeats as the Rig lurches towards forward. Chuckles opens fire on Vates as the colossal machine hurtles towards him, but the bullets bounce uselessly off the man's metal shield. At the last second, Chuckles speeds to the right on his bike, narrowly avoiding being smashed by the plow.

 _Bang bang!_

The train creates a wall, splitting the three of us as it picks up speed. Chuckles on one side, Three and I are on the other. I work the gas and brakes at the same time, twisting the wheel to turn the car around as fast as I can. Beside me, Three does the same. Behind, the trucks with drums and strings race to catch up. Ahead, I see Vates blocking another volley of gunshots coming from the far side of Rig. Sparks fly across his shield as the bullets collide with the metal. Then they stop. Chuckles's magazine must be empty. Without hesitation, Vates hurls himself off the side of the vehicle. He swings his pickaxe high in the air before vanishing from my view. Madman. But whether Vates survives the jump or not, the two trucks on that side of the Rig will be more than enough to take out Chuckles. I need to get over there now.

 _Bang bang!_

The birds keep pace with the train, becoming more erratic by the second. Pulsing as one giant, feathery mass to each beat of the drums. A heartbeat to the fight - one that matches the pounding in my chest. My blood feels hot and cold at the same time, and my eyes dart everywhere. This is no skirmish with some Mozzies. The small War Parties I've faced in the past are nothing compared to this. _The greatest Road War any of us have ever seen._

I ease off the gas just a little. I can't sit back and wait to be rammed by one of the trucks, but I need the Rig to pass me so I can get to the other side. Three charges ahead in his vehicle, cutting in front of me and racing along the length of the Rig. Five men leap from the trailer, attempting to land on Three's truck. Two of them meet the barbed wire face first, getting sliced and entangled before falling off the speeding vehicle.

 _Bang bang!_

The other three men manage to stick the landing, hanging on with one arm each. With their free hands, they beat against the sides and roof of the vehicle. Three leans out the window with his shotgun and shoots one of them in the head, sending him tumbling off the truck. The Cyclops's vehicle holds course as Three fights the assailants, never losing speed or swerving to the side. He's good.

As the trailer flies past me, two men leap from the side, aiming for my car. They tumble across the roof of my ride, but the barbed wire isn't enough to keep them away. They both cling to the passenger side, smashing at my vehicle with hammers. I snarl at them as I toss aside the rifle in favor of my pistol. In the passenger seat, the dog barks and claws at the chicken wire, trying to get at the attackers. Before I can do anything about them, one of the drum trucks finally catches up to me.

 _Bang bang!_

The vehicle pulls up alongside my car, blasting my ear with drum and guitar. A man in a leather jacket hangs from the open passenger door, swinging a large, iron ball on the end of a chain towards me. I swerve away, but it's too late. The hunk of metal collides hard with the chicken wire in my driver window. The mesh is forced from the doorframe, flying into my arm and bouncing onto the floor. I lean away, and the chain goes taught before the iron ball can smash into my head. It falls back toward the man, who prepares to strike again. Before he gets the chance, I stretch my arm out the now open window, aiming my pistol at the man's head. I shoot, hitting him right in the face. He falls from the truck without a sound.

The driver glares at me and twists his wheel, attempting to ram his vehicle into mine. I slam on the brakes. The truck careens to the side in front of me, narrowly missing my front bumper. In the bed, the drummer and doof continue to play, completely unfazed by the battle. I push against the steering wheel, keeping myself from flying forward as the car instantly loses speed. The men hanging onto the side of my vehicle aren't nearly as prepared. They lose their grip, hurtling forward into the dust. The dog also jolts forward, letting out an alarmed yelp before his snout collides with the dashboard.

"Sorry 'bout that," I mumble as the animal gets back up and shakes himself off. Then he goes back to barking out the window.

 _Bang bang!_

The rest of the trailer speeds past my suddenly slowed car, giving me the opening I need. I hit the gas and swerve to the left, cutting behind the Rig and emerging on the other side. I veer away from the trailer on this side, wanting to avoid any more jumpers. The men hanging from the metal box hoot and holler at me, but I ignore them. Several begin climbing to the other side, no doubt hoping to have an easier time getting at the Three. I'm sure the Cyclops can handle himself.

I leave the trailer behind, catching up to the main part of the Rig. It's picked up some serious speed now, and I have to press the gas almost to the floor just to match its pace. The two trucks on this side lie ahead, keeping up with the front of the terrifying Engine of War. Chuckles's motorcycle is nowhere in sight.

 _Bang bang!_

"Shit," I breathe as I look up.

There, dangling from the chains that clutter the sides of the Rig, are Chuckles and Vates. I press the gas further, speeding toward them. As I near the scene, I see the Road Warrior from Eden struggling to insert another magazine into his handgun, hanging onto a chain with one arm and both legs. Beside him, the zealot lashes out with the pickaxe. His shield is gone. Chuckles displays impressive athleticism, swinging his body and ducking his head to avoid the heavy strike. The weapon buries itself deep into the hull of the Rig, forcing Vates to spend a moment ripping it free.

That moment is all Chuckles needs. He slides the magazine into his gun and flashes a quick smile. Real joy cuts through his exhausted frown. Just as Vates pulls the pickaxe free and swings forward, Chuckles extends his right arm outward to fire at the maniac.

 _Bang bang!_

I don't actually hear it over the blaring music, but I can almost feel the sickening tear of skin and crunch of bone as Vates's pickaxe pierces the former Blackthumb's forearm, pinning it to the side of the Rig. Blood sprays outward, splattering onto the metal and the two men. Chuckles opens his mouth, letting out a scream that is completely lost in the chaos. His fingers go limp, and the handgun plummets into the churning sand.

"Shit, I repeat, panicking. My gas pedal is on the floor, but the War Rig has picked up so much speed that I'm only barely faster than it now. Can't catch up in time. "Shit, shit, shit!"

I watch helplessly as Vates clenches his free arm tighter around the chain, lifting his body upwards with his knees pulled in close to his chest. He swings forward again, extending his legs together to deliver a powerful kick directly into the young Road Warrior's screaming face. Chuckles loses his grip on the chain and begins to fall. The weight of his body pulls against the pickaxe embedded in his right forearm, completely snapping the bones and ripping the skin in half. My stomach twists violently as the man whose fate determines mine plummets toward the enormous wheels.

 _Bang bang!_

At the last second, Chuckles stops, barely managing to catch himself on the metal ledge serving as a tireguard. His cap flies from his head, tumbling down to be crushed by the wheels. The former Blackthumb hangs on for his life with his one good hand, trying desperately to pull himself up as his other arm gushes red. One of the chrome trucks pulls in close to the Rig, and for a moment I think they'll try to knock Chuckles loose, but they just keep pace with the machine. Above, Vates pries the pickaxe from the hull again, and the severed half of Chuckle's arm falls away. The madman braces his legs against the Rig and propels himself forward, soaring through the air and landing on the hood of the truck. The man in the passenger seat opens the door and offers the leader his shield again. Vates puts it on his arm as be balances easily on the hood. Then he looks up, locking eyes directly with me. His mouth moves, forming words I can't possibly hear over the noise.

 _Bang bang!_

Suddenly, I hear a loud crash above my head. A moment later, there's the growl of a power saw and the screech of grinding of metal. My metal. Anger floods my body, mixing with the terror. The dog howls and whips his head around frantically as sparks fly in through the windows. One of the men must have jumped at me from the Rig while I was so focused on Chuckles and Vates. I look again to the former Blackthumb. He's managed to swing one foot onto the ledge, but I know he won't last long. He's leaking life worse than a shot up fuel tank. I'll be the same way soon if I don't deal with the man on my roof.

I pick up the rifle and wedge it in the space below the steering wheel to keep the gas down. Once the pedal is jammed, I holster the pistol and take out my knife. I've done this a couple times before, but never in this extreme of circumstances. Behind the scarf, I take a deep breath through my nose. Then I reach my free hand out the window and grab the edge of my car's roof, hoisting myself up to sit in the window. I keep the wheel steady with one foot and move my empty hand to grip the side mirror, bracing myself.

 _Bang bang!_

The man with the saw is perched on top of my car, almost directly in front of me. He looks over at me and sneers. I snarl back and slash at him with the knife. My foot shifts slightly on the wheel during the movement, making the car swerve and throwing off my attack. The leather-clad man ducks, easily avoiding the blade. I level out the vehicle and strike again, this time careful to keep my leg steady. The knife slices across the side of the man's face and down his neck. Blood sprays out, joining the sparks that dance in the wind. He cries out and falls backward, disappearing over the other side of my car and taking the saw with him.

I glance down at the roof of my ride. It now sports a deep gash directly over the driver seat. The man's blood is everywhere, too, clinging to the top of the speeding vehicle. The blood doesn't bother me; it means someone paid for fucking up my car. Some of the birds swoop low, flying alongside my vehicle, spasming and cawing along with the drumbeat. I sheathe my knife and glare at them before sliding into the car.

 _Bang bang!_

Back inside, the dog is staring at me like I'm a maniac. He's not too far off. That was one of the most dangerous things I've ever done, and the adrenaline rush is like nothing I've felt before. I dislodge the rifle and toss it back into the passenger seat. Then my foot stomps on the gas pedal, and I go speeding towards Chuckles again.

The mass of smoke is far behind us now. The smell of the burning corpses finally starts to fade, replaced with guzzolene, blood, and machinery. My vision completely filled with sand, exhaust, feathers, and metal. My good ear hurts from the screeching birds, blaring sirens, heavy music, powerful engines, and the screaming of men on the other side of the train. Filthy black smoke sputters out of all of Vates's unhealthy vehicles, and I can taste burnt oil. The battle is completely overwhelming all of my senses.

 _Bang bang!_

To make matters worse, I see Vates standing triumphantly atop the truck that is slowing down to meet me. He's in complete control of the situation, immune to the chaos all around him. His calm in the face of War is something all Road Warrior strive to achieve. Seeing it face to face is terrifying. I race forward, trying to get to Chuckles before Vates reaches me. It's no use. The truck swerves to the side just as it nears my car, colliding with the front corner at an angle. The nearby birds flee, squawking in fear. I lurch sideways, wrestling to keep control of the wheel. In one fluid motion, Vates steps onto the hood of my car. He briefly struggles to stand on the unstable vehicle, but he regains his balance as soon as I steady the wheel.

The truck manages to maintain course, now speeding alongside me. I see the passenger lean out of the open door. He wields a large lance, the base of which is chained to the side of the cab. He lifts the weapon above his head, preparing to pierce my vehicle and tether it to the truck. I raise my pistol and fire out the window. The bullet strikes the man's arm, throwing his aim off and he lunges with the lance. It plunges into the sand, barely missing front tire.

 _Bang bang!_

On the hood, Vates raises his shield arm and rams it harshly down onto my windshield. Cracks explode across the glass, obscuring much of my vision. He raises the pickaxe for a final swing, one which will shatter the windshield completely. Before he can bring the weapon down, I twist the steering wheel to the side, swerving away from the truck. Vates loses his balance momentarily, and his swing hits nothing but air. As he teeters on the hood, I let the force of the turn pull me toward the window. I reach my arm out and aim my pistol at the zealot on the hood. Even while struggling to keep his balance, Vates's reflexes are insanely fast. He raises the shield as I fire, and the bullet ricochets off harmlessly.

As the car continues to swerve, the madman swings his axe down over the side of the vehicle. The weapon pierces the front tire, popping it instantly. The car lurches in the other direction as the deflated tire loses speed. The remaining wheels barely keep their grip on the loose sand.

I pull my arm inside and drop the pistol into my lap again. My foot leaves the pedal; I know braking or hitting the gas harder will only make things worse. I grip the steering wheel with both hands, forcing it to stay straight with all my strength. To my relief, the tires straighten out. I do my best to keep the wheel steady as I hit the gas again.

 _Bang bang!_

To my shock and horror, Vates is somehow still on the hood. He doesn't seem affected by any of this; he's like a machine. I glare out at him through my cracked windshield. Have to get him off my car before he fucks it up even more. I can feel the calm beginning to creep in between my galloping heartbeats - that cold, dangerous serenity I felt in my nightmare. Have to get him off my car. Now. Nothing else matters.

I stomp hard on the brake. The wheels skid through the sand, kicking up dirt and rock. Vates is launched forward as the car suddenly slows beneath him. He loses his grip on the shield, which goes flying away through the dust. He reacts instantly. The tip of the pickaxe slams down into the hood of the car, saving Vates from being completely tossed from the vehicle as it violently comes to a stop.

 _Bang bang!_

The War Party races by, leaving the two of us behind. As I reach for my pistol, Vates pulls himself up and lunges forward, leaving his pickaxe embedded in the hood. He dives through the damaged windshield, sending shattered glass flying everywhere. The zealot lands between the front seats. His legs stretch over the dashboard, and his feet rest on the hood. The arm that gripped the pickaxe is visibly dislocated, twisting awkwardly beneath the heavy coat. With lightning fast speed and seeming immunity to pain, Vates reaches over with his good arm to snatch handgun from my lap. He ejects the magazine and the shell in the chamber before tossing the weapon away through the broken windshield behind him.

We lock eyes again. His sharp, determined gaze pierces into my skull. Now that I see his face up close, I realize he's a good deal older than I am. Somewhere between my age and Three's, I think. His face is slim and angular, and he's bleeding in a few places from minor glass cuts. His jaw lacks any hint of stubble, and there are faint frown lines at the corners of his mouth. The long patch of hair sprouting from the front of his scalp is drenched in sweat.

I hesitate, confused. Why didn't he just shoot me? Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the birds land on the handle on the pickaxe. It's larger than the others I've seen. The animal perches on the weapon, rotating its head and watching us curiously.

In my moment of doubt and distraction, Vates scrambles up, again moving incredibly fast. He pulls his legs inside the car and tackles me in the confined space. I grapple, trying to push him back. But even with a dislocated shoulder, he's stronger than I am. He pins me against the inside of the door, and I exhale sharply as back collides with the metal. The madman holds my arms down, preventing me from reaching for my knife. He looks into my eyes triumphantly. I know he sees fear staring back at him.

I hear a snarl, and for a second I think it's coming from Vates. Then I see the dog's head appear over the zealot's shoulder. His lips are pulled back to reveal sharp, yellow teeth. He leaps forward, his mouth opening wide as he descends upon my assailant. The beast's sharp teeth sink into Vates's neck, and he gasps in pain, finally breaking eye contact with me. The dog clamps his jaw tight and shakes his head violently, tearing into the flesh. Vates grits his teeth against what must be extreme pain. He lets go of me and delivers powerful strikes into the dog's side with his elbow. The animal relents, backing down from the assault and whimpering. Vates bashes him sharply on the head, knocking the hound unconscious.

The terrifying zealot turns back to me as I scramble to unsheath my knife. Blood is pouring out of his neck, soaking into the fur collar of his coat, running down his torso, dripping onto me. Red everywhere. From the looks of it, my dog just gave the man a death sentence; he will succumb to blood loss shortly. I just need to survive long enough for him to die.

Harder said than done. He grabs my wrist, pulling my hand away from the knife. Then he crashes into me again, bracing his feet against the passenger seat to give him leverage. This time, he grabs my head, smashing the back of my skull into the windowsill. I grunt in pain, reaching up to push against his shoulders. My hands struggle to get a decent grip on his blood-soaked body. He lifts my head and brings it down on the sill again.

"Dies!" Vates shouts in a foreign language as my skull collides with metal.

Another bash.

"Irae!"

He repeats the two strange words as he drives my head into the sill again and again. It feels like my skull is going to split open at any moment. Hot blood runs down the side of my neck, and I'm not sure if it's his or mine. I can barely move in the cramped space, and I start to see black spots before my eyes. My stomach clenches up. Panic rushes through me as I realize I'm going to be killed. Next comes a stubborn rage. I can't let this freak end me, not when he's so close to death himself. No way. I have to outlive this. Not for any purpose - I just have to _survive._

The calmness sets in. I let go of Vates's shoulders and reach behind my back. My head strikes the windowsill again, and I cry out in pain. Then my fingers find the handle, and I pull hard. The door flies open, propelled by the weight of two bodies. Vates and I tumble into the dirt. At last, I have room to move. We thrash around in the sand, each trying to pin the other down. The physical exertion makes the blood flow even faster from the gaping wound in the zealot's neck. The sand beneath us quickly becomes soaked in red.

I feel Vates's strength beginning to wane. No matter how skilled or powerful, no one can survive that much lost blood. I force my exhausted muscles to keep fighting. So close now. Finally, I manage to twist on top of the man, shoving his face into the dirt and holding his arms behind his back. He struggles to move, but there's not much life left in him. I brace one palm against his good arm and pull violently with my other hand. He merely grunts as the bone snaps.

"My visions… were not wrong," Vates struggles to say, twisting his mangled neck to lift his face out of the sand. He hacks up some blood. "Go forth… and bring order to the Wastes."

The dying madman coughs again, then again. It becomes a violent fit. He writhes underneath me, spitting even more red into the thirsty sand. The large bird leaves its pickaxe perch and lands on the ground in front of Vates's head, lightly tapping on his scalp with its beak. The coughing subsides.

"Max has been reincarnated and returned to us!" Vates manages to shout weakly.

The zealot's head collapses into the sand again. I hear his words, but they don't quite register. This isn't over yet. I reach into my jacket and take out the knife. It's still covered in fresh blood from the man with the saw. Underneath that, the dried blood of the old woman. Then the blood of the Mozzies. I lean forward, grabbing Vates's hair with one hand and pulling his head back. He sputters a little but doesn't fight me. The large bird hops backward but doesn't fly away - just watches me. I slip my other hand under Vates's chin, pressing the knife against his already blood-covered neck. Then I slide the blade quickly across his throat and release his hair. His head falls to the ground one last time.

I take my weight off his limp form, kneeling back in the sand and the dust and the blood. My breathing is heavy, and my heart pounds in my ear. My head feels like it's going to explode. I stare at the madman, almost expecting him to leap up and finish me off at any moment, but he never moves. His once determined face looks almost content now, and his blue eyes stare hollowly into the distance. The man called Vates is dead.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has been checking out this story. Special thanks this week to el mano for the follow. Don't be afraid to let me know any thoughts or constructive criticisms; unlike Jaw, I don't bite. For anyone curious, Vates's War song is loosely based on 'Feuer Frei!' by Rammstein. It is the edgiest song for the edgiest man. Next week: the aftermath. Stay tuned.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

I don't know how long I sit there, just looking at Vates's body, waiting for the shock and adrenaline to wear off. His bird caws suddenly, and I snap out of the trance. I can't hear the War Party at all - no music or sirens or shouting. The only the sounds are my car's engine and the pounding in my ear. I need to go. Chuckles won't last much longer - if he isn't already dead.

I get to my feet and move quickly, ignoring the horrible aching in my head. The bird continues to stare at me as I drag Vates's body to my vehicle. The heavy coat makes the dead man weigh a lot more, so I remove it before lifting his corpse onto the rear of my car. Anuket didn't ask for any proof, but I'm in the habit of bringing the body back with me by now. Besides, he popped my tire, so now he can be the counterweight. I toss the large, bloodsoaked coat in the car and reach for the canteen under the driver chair. I only allow myself a few sips of precious water, but it's enough to bring some energy back to my battered body. I tuck the canteen away again and grab the chains I got from the dead Mozzies. They're still coiled behind the driver seat, right where I left them. When I return to the body of Vates, the bird is perched on his chest. I swat at it, but it just flies onto the roof of my car. Good enough.

There's blood all over the car - on the roof, running down the sides, pooling on the back, covering the front seats. _Red stallion_ , Vates had said. Nonsense. The words of a madman. I chain his body to the back of the car and head around to the front. The zealot's pickaxe is still lodged in the hood, but the engine doesn't sound like it's been damaged. I pry the axe free, pick up my pistol and its cartridge, and get in the driver seat.

The engine growls as my vehicle follows the tracks left in the sand by the War Party. Outside, Vates's bird caws as the car slides out from under its feet. It was probably hoping to make a meal out of its master's body, but it'll just have to settle for some of the other carnage. In the passenger seat, the dog is still unconscious. His chest rises and falls, ensuring me that he's alive. I can't tell how badly hurt he is; the blood covering his head could be his or Vates's. Without that neck wound to weaken him in the end, I don't think I would have been able to beat the madman. He was too good - experienced, well-trained, full of zeal. This dog saved my life. I take the opportunity to reach over and pat him gently on the head. I'll have to repay him somehow.

As we race across the sand, I examine the spoils of War: Vates's coat and weapon. The large garment lies between the front seats. It was there just a little while ago, too, but with a very alive and very deadly Vates inside of it. Now it's empty and stiff with dried blood. The once-grey fur on the collar will be forever matted and stained a dark red, but I don't mind. It's got more pockets than my leather jacket, and the long body is perfect for hiding weapons stashed on my body. No sense in letting such a fine piece of clothing go to waste.

I look at the pickaxe next, turning it over in one hand. The long handle is curved and has a grip at the base. The head has sharp, serrated edges. The entire thing is made out of black metal without a hint of rust. Vates took good care of this weapon. On one side of the handle, some words have been engraved in the metal. They don't look like the written symbols I usually see, but it doesn't really matter; I can't read them either way.

Without a windshield, hot air and sand rush straight into me, and I have to squint to keep most of the grit out of my eyes. The blood covering my body dries quickly in the wind - on my face, my hands, my neck, my chest. It's everywhere. I reach up to touch the back of my head, and my fingers come away wet. Still bleeding from where Vates slammed me into the window, but it's not too bad. I'll live. Got damn lucky this time.

The tracks stretch on before my ride. The War Party has a big head start, and my speed is severely limited by that flat tire. I don't know if I'll ever catch up. I can't even see any smoke in the distance. Eventually, however, things begin to appear. Bits of scrap metal. A few dead bodies with the braided hair of the trailer riders. I pass an abandoned drumming truck. Still no sign of my teammates. Could both of them still be alive? A small flicker of hope forms in my chest, but I tell myself not to let it get to me. For all I know, their corpses are tangled in the Rig's chains or left to rot in the trailer.

A black form appears beside my open window. I glance over to see that damn bird flying alongside my car. Wish it would leave me alone. When I look ahead again, a vehicle appears on the horizon, not moving. Too big and too dark to be one of the chrome trucks, but much too small to be the Rig. As I get closer, my stomach goes cold once again.

It's Three's truck.

My arms lock up, holding the wheel steady, as if my body is telling me to just keep going. Chuckles is the priority here. If he dies, I can't go back to Anuket, and this whole thing will have been pointless. Maybe she won't care as long as I don't come back, but maybe she'll send people after me. I can't take that risk. I got lucky with Vates. No way I could take on a few of those massive Crocodiles - not even with Jaw's help.

Besides, Three might not even be in the truck. Maybe he ditched it and jumped on the train or another vehicle. Or maybe he is in there, and he's dead. Or maybe he's not. Maybe he's injured but alive. But it doesn't matter. I can't afford to care. That's just how it goes out here - we drive until the Road comes up to meet us and buries our corpses in the sand. I know that. Three knows that. Hell, he'd probably give me a lecture about it.

Then again, he did go out of his way to save my life. But that was only because his die rolled a certain way. He didn't decide on his own to help me. Unlike him, I can make my own decisions, yeah?

"Shit," I sigh, already regretting what I'm about to do.

I turn the wheel towards Three's vehicle, pressing on the brakes and continuing to swear at myself under my breath. Better make this quick. If he's alive in there, get him out and get back on the Road. If he's dead, leave him. I park the car and step out, approaching the Cyclop's truck quickly but carefully. Most of the barbed wire has been pulled or cut off, leaving a trail of knotted metal behind the vehicle. Other than that, the heavily armored ride barely has a visible dent. The back and passenger doors are shut, preventing me from seeing inside.

Vates's bird circles overhead - not foreboding at all. I scowl as it lands on the rear of the truck and caws at me. It takes all my willpower not to shoot the damn thing. Need to save my bullets for something that can fight back.

The driver door is open, and I anxiously peer inside. Three is nowhere in sight. In the passenger seat, however, is his shotgun, surrounded by spent shells. I check the back through a small, grated window behind the center console. Nobody back there, either. He must have jumped onto the train. Or maybe he was pulled out. I grab the firearm and run back to my ride, eager to get going. I'm glad I didn't find Three's mangled corpse in the truck, but I'm also irritated at myself for wasting precious time. The sun is starting to set, and the War Party isn't getting any closer.

I glare at the bird as I pull away from Three's truck. This time, though, the winged creature does not follow. It roosts on the Cyclop's vehicle and just watches me go with its beady eyes. Good riddance.

Not long after, the dog stirs in the passenger seat. He slowly sits up, looking around nervously. His ears perk up when he sees me, and he wags his tail a little. I flash him a half-smile in greeting. Despite the assault from Vates, he seems to be doing fine now that he's awake. I told myself I wouldn't get attached, but this dog is making it pretty damn impossible. Maybe I'll give him a name as a way of saying thanks for saving my life. If I'm going to keep him around, I might as well call him something.

Before I have time to think of a name, my attention is again pulled to the horizon. Cliffs appear, signaling the end of this enormous stretch of sand. Flying above one of the jagged peaks is an enormous flock of black birds. As I get closer, I can hear them squawking. This time, their cries are not accompanied by music or engines. Whatever they're circling is silent and unmoving. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the worst as I speed toward the cliffs.

Moments later, I see it. Crashed into the side of a rock wall is the massive War Rig. It lies completely still and eerily quiet except for the birds. No drums, no exhaust, no men crawling on the trailer. The black, metal paneling near the front is warped and crumpled from the force of the impact. The chains are twisted and tangled, and the car plow has been flattened. Worst of all, the shiny V8 engines have been completely destroyed, smashed between the Rig and the cliff. What a waste. Scattered around the machine are large pieces of metal that flew off in the collision, along with several corpses of Vates's men. I drive around the other side. More bodies. Two chrome trucks splattered with blood. Not a living person in sight.

Finally, I look up, and my eyes go wide. There, sitting atop the machine where Vates once stood, is Three the Cyclops. Even from down here, I can see enormous bruises covering his now shirtless body. Beside him, Chuckles sits with his legs crossed. Alive. The young Road Warrior holds still as the older man wraps what remains of his right arm with some cloth and rope. Chuckles's tanned skin looks unusually pale. He stares blankly out across the Wastes, not even noticing my car. Three hears my engine and looks down, nodding solemnly when our eyes meet.

I gape at the scene as my car comes to a halt. Not only are the two of them still alive, but they managed to take down the entire Rig. I couldn't even keep up with the War Party, and I missed most of the fight. They did this all on their own, just the two of them. Three is truly a force to be reckoned with, and Chuckles shows strong potential as a survivor. Maybe Anuket saw something in him when she chose him to be a Road Warrior. Or maybe he just got lucky. Either way, he's alive, and that's all that matters to me.

I kill the engine and step out into the cooling air. The dog stays in the passenger seat, licking at his bruised ribs. I hold Three's shotgun under one arm and start climbing up a rusty ladder on the side of the Rig.

"He gonna make it?" I call up to the Cyclops.

"Yeah, he'll be fine," Three mumbles as I make it to the top. I can just barely hear him with my good ear over the screeching of the birds.

The veteran Road Warrior takes the offered shotgun with a grunt. I examine him carefully. His face, chest, and arms are incredibly bruised and swollen. Fresh cuts and old scars travel across his entire torso. Behind him, the bodies of several of Vates's men are strewn across the top of the Rig.

"He's gonna need an Organic, though," Three adds, indicating Chuckles's arm. "I wrapped him up as best I can."

I look down at the former Blackthumb. He's suffered a few good cuts and bruises, but not nearly as many as Three. His right arm ends just below the elbow, wrapped tightly in cloth and rope to stop the bleeding. The fabric is covered in dirt and red. Chuckles has managed to survive the blood loss and trauma, but he'll get an infection if someone more professional than Three doesn't look at his arm soon. _Silent killer_. The Cyclops is right: he needs an Organic, and fast. Chuckles turns his placid gaze in my direction, finally noticing me but barely reacting. Still in shock.

"Glad you made it," I say sincerely. As long as he can make it back to Eden and get the help he needs, we'll both get out of this alive.

"He's a tough fucker," Three observes, standing up. "Commandeered this thing and crashed it with one arm, while I was forced into a gladiatorial pit in the trailer."

That explains the bruises. How many men did Three have to fight at once? I almost wish I'd been there to see that. Despite his age, the Cyclops is one of the most powerful people I've met. There's no doubt in my mind he could have taken out Vates much more easily than I did - and without help from a dog. As for Chuckles, I was already surprised that he managed to stay alive. But hearing that he was the one who took out the Rig shocks me even more. He's young and inexperienced, sure, but he's also resourceful. And tough, like Three said. I look at him with a newfound sense of respect.

"Could have used your help," the Cyclops informs me as he helps Chuckles to his feet. "Where is Vates?"

"Down there," I reply, motioning to my car below. "Dead. Sorry it took so long."

The apology is awkward but sincere. I should have been here to help them. These two went through hell to get this job done. Even the dog did more than I could manage to do. But I can't waste any energy feeling bad about it. We all knew what we might have to deal with when we signed up for this. And in the end, we survived, and the job is done. That's all that matters.

Three leans over the side of the Rig, gazing down at my car and Vates's corpse.

"Holy shit," the Cyclops breathes. "You fought and killed him by yourself? Do you know who he is?"

His voice sounds genuinely surprised - even a little impressed. He continues to stare at the body. Chuckles joins him, finally snapping out of his daze.

"He is a member - a rogue member - of Thor's Asgardians," Three explains when I don't answer. His voice returns to its gravelly monotone. "The elite warriors are trained from a young age to fight on the Fury Road."

"They're animals," Chuckles adds, turning to look at me. Instead of his normal frown, there is a mix of admiration and humiliation on his face. "Eden doesn't have a long history of War with Thor, but there are plenty of tales of Asgardians taking on several Crocodiles at a time."

"And this one was also trained by Bishop and indoctrinated into his crazy religion." Three glances at me. "I'm surprised you're alive. You're tougher than I thought, Roman."

I hesitate, not sure what to say. It takes me a moment to digest all the information. Most of it doesn't make sense. Thor's Asgardians? Never heard of them, but I hate to think there are more people like Vates out there. And if they're as good as my teammates say, there's no way I should have been able to kill one. All luck. And a dog. The praise catches me off guard, too, but it's kind of… nice. I don't really think I deserve it, but having the respect of a veteran Road Warrior isn't something to take lightly.

"I'm just glad it's done," I say at last. Three nods.

Chuckles moves past me and starts climbing down the side of the train. Despite his injury, he moves quickly. He's probably anxious to get back to Eden. So am I, if I'm honest. I could use another bath. I gaze towards the rapidly setting sun, feeling the last bits of adrenaline fading away to leave me cold and exhausted. I wish more than anything that I could be back in that bed. It would be worth the nightmares just to be able to close my eyes.

"What now?" I ask Three, holding back a shiver that threatens to creep into my shoulders.

"First order of business is to bring Chuckles back to Eden so he can see an Organic," Three replies matter-of-factly. "We don't have time to scrap this or get my truck, so can we get a ride? We are going to have to risk raiders getting this junk and come back tomorrow."

"That's fine, yeah," I agree. "One tire's busted, but we should be able to make it back all right. Long as we don't run into any other trouble. Windshield's gone, too. It'll be a cold ride."

Three only grunts in response, gazing at something on the ground far below us. I follow his eye to see Chuckles not-so-gracefully prying a dirty, leather jacket from the corpse of a man with a fireman's axe embedded in his skull. When I turn back, Three has disappeared. Over the sound of the birds, I hear the scraping of metal and the soft thud of bodies being moved inside the trailer. After a few moments, the Cyclops reappears through a hatch in the roof, now wearing his green jacket. He must have lost it in the fight, but seeing Chuckles looting one from a corpse seems to have reminded him. Below, the young Road Warrior has managed to get the garment free. He puts it on, shielding his naked torso from the oncoming cold. I don't know if anyone really decided that jackets are what Road Warriors wear, but I haven't met many who go without them. Chuckles is one of us now.

Three begins climbing down the side of the trailer, and I make my way to the ladder.

"You sure about leaving your truck?" I call over to the Cyclops. "Might be long gone by tomorrow."

"Yeah, I already decided."

I narrow my eyes, wondering if he rolled his die for that one. Sometimes he does, and sometimes he doesn't. I can't tell if there's any real logic to it, or if he just does it whenever he feels like taking a risk. Strange man.

"It's better to hurry up and get medical attention for Chuckles," Three continues. "And any raider will find Anastasia very hard to scrap."

My suspicion turns to surprise. Three named his ride? Didn't peg him as the sentimental type. Then again, I didn't think of him as a team player, either. Guess I still don't know anything about him.

We join Chuckles on the ground and walk to my car together, stepping over bodies and debris. Three and Chuckles head to the back to see the body of Vates up close. I follow, looking down at the insane man who nearly ended my life. His pale face looks peaceful.

"What should we do with the body?" I ask.

"Keep it as proof that we did the job since we aren't bringing anything else back," Three instructs.

"Lady Anuket will be very impressed that we killed an Asgardian and took out his War Party. Although she will probably be furious with Thor," Chuckles mumbles to himself. Then he turns around and heads for the passenger door of my car. "Shotgun."

Three groans.

"Might have to fight that dog for it," I warn Chuckles as I open the driver door.

I get inside and start clearing weapons off the passenger seat. Rifle in its slot, revolver on me, crossbow and extra ammo under the driver seat. Everything in its place. The dog watches me, wagging his tail.

"Go on, get in the back," I tell him, motioning behind the passenger chair. "And be nice to Three, yeah?"

To my surprise, the dog obeys. Guess he likes me a little more now. Chuckles opens the door and gets inside, not bothered by the dried blood all over the seat. He leans back in the chair, attempting to relax. He may have survived his first Road War, but he'll carry it with him the rest of his short life - both physically and mentally. Despite his injuries, though, he doesn't seem discouraged - just tired and still a little shocked. Chuckles has successfully protected the place he grew up in and loves - possibly the only place he's ever known. If he can make it through this, his sheer tenacity will make him an excellent Road Warrior, and his zealotry will probably keep him from becoming a jaded mess like me or Three. Or maybe the Wastes will get to him, too, someday. I probably won't be around long enough to find out.

I grab my canteen from under the seat and exit the car. The Cyclops approaches me, and I offer him the water.

"Thanks," Three says. He takes a modest swig before handing it back.

The old Road Warrior climbs into the back of the car after I fold down the driver chair. The dog steps over and stares him right in the face, sniffing the air.

"Uh… hi," Three greets him awkwardly. The dog wags his tail. "Looks like you got pretty beat up, bud. How is this dog treating you, Roman?"

"Saved my life already," I reply, handing the canteen to Chuckles next. He grabs it from my hand and happily chugs about half of the contents before returning it.

"Thanks," he says, wiping his mouth. I nod.

"He nearly ripped Vates's throat out," I continue to Three. "Got hit pretty hard for that. Doesn't like being touched, so watch your hands."

"Noted," Three says, scooting slightly away from the animal. "What's his name?"

I hesitate, thinking. The dog looks over at me and begins panting, exposing teeth still covered in blood.

"Jaw," I decide after a moment. The dog tilts his head to the side curiously.

Chuckles returns the canteen to me. I pour the rest of the water into my hand and hold it out to Jaw. He sniffs my fingertips hesitantly for a moment, then greedily laps up the water. I hold back a smile; I know I'm already way too attached to this damn dog.

Once Jaw is finished drinking, I start the car. The noise of the engine floods in through the broken windows and windshield. Even after all this time, I still think it's the most beautiful sound in the world. I press the gas and turn the vehicle around, glancing at the wreckage in my rearview mirror as we drive away. The birds in the sky have now descended to feed on the corpses. At long last, they fall silent. I breathe a small sigh of relief as we speed toward the relative safety of Eden. It's almost over.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thanks as always to everyone who has been reading. Special thanks this week to el mano for the lovely review. Next week: trouble in Eden. Stay tuned.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Night falls as Vates's War Rig fades from view behind us. All heat vanishes from the Wasteland; cold air bites into my hands and face as it whips in through the open windshield. Three helps me navigate the cliffs, making sure I don't get lost in the maze of rock. He seems to know the area well - probably a result of working near Anuket's territory for so long. At some point, Chuckles falls asleep, snoring softly with his head tilted back and mouth agape.

"Yeah, you're good," Three says as we finally exit the rocky area. The world turns to sand before us once again. "At this point, it is a straight shot to Eden."

The Cyclops leans back, settling against the rear windowsill. I expect him to try for some shuteye after such a long day, but he doesn't seem interested. He just looks out the window, watching the horizon for any signs of trouble. Does this man ever sleep?

"So, how did the fight go?" the old Road Warrior asks after a short stretch of silence. "What was he like?"

"Terrifying," I reply after a moment.

I decide to be honest with Three. I'm sure he remembers his younger Road Warrior days, full of fear and paranoia; no point in trying to hide mine. The Cyclops couldn't have always been this emotionless, could he?

"He didn't even have to think about what he was doing. He… Just look at this." I take a frigid hand off the wheel to gesture at the empty windshield. "Jumped headfirst through the glass and disarmed me before I could even move. Dislocated his shoulder, but that didn't slow him down. It was like he didn't feel pain."

My mind flashes back to the fight. Those piercing, blue eyes. His speed and strength. Jaw biting and tearing at his throat. The look of raw determination on his face as he bashed my head against the window sill. Insanity. The shouting in that weird language. My fear of death. Calmness. Falling out of the car. Wrestling him in the sand and finally subduing him. Then those things he said…

"Do you know what 'rein…' uh… 'reincarnated' means?" I ask, struggling briefly with the word I don't know.

Three grunts, taking a moment to think. Beside me, Chuckles snorts in his sleep and rolls over on his side.

"I think it means to be born again in another body," the Cyclops finally answers. "Why?"

"Vates, he…" I trail off. I hadn't paid any attention to Vates's final speech at the time. Still too caught up in the rush of the fight. But now, they play over and over in my mind. The dying words of a madman. "He said something about Max being… reincarnated. Right before I killed him."

"That's ridiculous," says Three, leaning forward again to be heard better over the whistling wind. "Max is a famous Road Warrior - the first and the best. Supposedly. I think he's just a made up tall tale. All kinds of stories of him helping random people and then disappearing."

I nod. I've heard stories about Max before - who hasn't? Cord didn't believe in his, either. Said it was too good to be true, and that there's no point pretending some legendary hero might show up to save us. For some people, though, Max is like a God. They worship him like Chuckles does with Anuket. I've never seen the point in that. If Max were real, he's probably long dead by now. No sense in praying to someone who can't help anymore.

"He mentioned those visions again, too," I add, remembering what Vates told me to do. _Go forth… and bring order to the Wastes_. Sounds like something Max would do in one of those stories. "Another part of his crazy religion, yeah?"

"No, probably not the religion." Three shakes his head. "The religion Bishop follows is called Christian. Some crazy Historymen found some texts from pre-Fall and brainwashed some people with it." He pauses for a moment. "But I suppose it isn't all that crazy compared to these Gods."

I don't reply, too busy wondering what Vates meant by what he said. The stuff about Max is nonsense, of course. No way I'm some mythical Road Warrior reborn. Maybe he meant Jaw, since the dog was really the one who cut his life short. The idea of my dog showing up to answer prayers and bring order makes me smile a little. He's usually too busy sleeping for that.

"I don't know what this means for Thor, though." The Cyclops pipes up again, quieter this time, like he's talking to himself. "How many of his Asgardians turned? Did they rebel? Did the leave quietly? Is there a civil war there? Did Thor himself convert? How is Anuket going to react? Is there going to be War?"

I don't answer, not sure what half his questions even mean. The veteran Road Warrior is unusually talkative tonight. Maybe he's trying to keep himself awake. With all he's seen and done, he probably has nightmares worse than mine. I don't mind talking to him, though. Keeps me awake, too. And the Cyclops isn't so bad when he isn't pissed off.

"I don't know," Three repeats, as clueless as I am. "But it can't be good. But at least the Asgardians have someone to fear now. People won't forget you killing one in single combat easily. I have been remembered for less."

"Just as long as they don't all come after me for this," I reply, taking off my scarf to wrap it around my hands. They feel like they're frozen to the steering wheel. "Doubt I'd survive."

"Don't worry about that," Three assures me. He pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders, his tolerance for the cold waning. "Asgardians, and most of the people in Midgard, value strength and martial glory. They'll probably throw you a feast or something."

Doesn't sound so bad. Still, I think I'll avoid any more Asgardians if I can. One is more than enough for me. Chuckles would probably agree. I glance over at the young man in the passenger seat. He's shivering in his sleep. I pull a hand from the scarf and drape Vates's coat over the young Road Warrior's torso. No way I'm letting him die when we're this close to turning in the job.

Three leans back again, scooting closer to the dog for warmth. Jaw is curled up on the floor, fast asleep. I watch the horizon, searching for the silhouette of Eden's small mountain. Despite knowing nothing about Thor or the relationships between the Gods, I find myself worrying about what Three said. If Anuket blames Thor for Vates's actions against her people, what will she do? An army of Crocodiles versus a league of Asgardians. The Wasteland would be torn apart. I don't want to get caught in the middle of anything like that.

"What if there _is_ War?" I ask the Cyclops after a long silence. "Will you join in? Or go somewhere else till it boils over?"

"I don't know. I have a history working with both Thor and Anuket. I'll probably be forced to take sides." Three stares out of the window for a long time before continuing. "I'm not particularly loyal to either, so depending on what my die says, I'll either fight with whoever pays me more, or hightail it somewhere else. What about you?"

"Never met Thor," I say, shrugging, "And Anuket is…"

I trail off as the image of Trace suddenly appears in my mind. What if Anuket loses the War? What would happen to her and the Handmaidens? I told myself I wouldn't care, that her kindness was all an act, but deep down I'm not so sure. I'm not sure of anything in this strange part of the Wastes.

"I don't know," I conclude lamely.

"That's fine," Three says, his voice less gruff than usual. "You don't need to decide your stance on something that might not even happen."

Off in the distance, I finally see the two cities of East and West Eden peeking up over the horizon. Nearly there. I can almost feel the damp, warm air of the throne room on my frozen face.

"Whatever happens… I hope we don't end up on opposite sides. I don't want to fight you," the Cyclops says awkwardly but sincerely. He quickly changes the subject, glancing up at the approaching cities. "I look forward to a bath."

"Same here," I agree, both about the bath and the fighting.

I'm not sure if he doesn't want to fight me because he likes me or because he thinks he'd lose. For me, it's both. The old man has definitely grown on me, and I think there's no way I could beat him. Maybe I'd last longer with Jaw's help, but Three would be prepared for that, unlike Vates.

As the cities get closer and closer, nerves flare up in my stomach. I'm not looking forward to seeing Anuket again, especially if there's a good chance she'll get pissed about Vates and Thor. Trace will be there, too. I see her smiling in my mind, looking at me with those blue eyes. I wish I knew what to think about her. Does she want information out of me, or is she just looking for a friend? I've never been good at figuring people out.

"We almost there?" Chuckles's whispers groggily from the passenger seat.

"Almost," Three responds, his voice returning to its normal, rough monotone. "You'll get patched up soon."

"Good. I don't know if you ever had your arm cut off, Three, but it fucking hurts."

"I'll take your word for it."

We spend the short remainder of the journey in silence. No Blackthumbs drive out to meet my car this time, and the marketplace is eerily empty. All the merchant tables and trailers are gone. If there are still guards around, they are well-hidden. I speed up the hill to the cages. Here, there are a few signs of life. Several Blackthumbs are still working on vehicles, not letting the long hours of night go to waste. They look up as we come to a stop in one of the cages. Three waves to one of them through the chicken wire in his window. The Blackthumb nods excitedly and runs off, heading up to East Eden to announce our return.

We wait quietly. Chuckles sits up in his seat, looking confusedly at the foreign coat draped over his body. He puts the garment back between the seats and gazes out the window, watching the Blackthumbs with a blank expression. I wonder if he regrets becoming a Road Warrior already. He didn't really have a choice, but I don't think he would've said no even if he had. When Anuket told him the title was a curse, the former lowly Blackthumb was too awed by her attention to care. He'd seen some combat before, he said back in the throne room. _Two border defenses and a scavenging skirmish._ Nothing that could have prepared him for Vates's War. Will he go back out on the Road after this, or will he stay in Eden and hide from the terrors of the Fallen world? Not until I was forced to become a Road Warrior did I realize Utopia hadn't been the paradise I always believed. Chuckles may come to feel the same way about Eden someday. Or he might devote himself to his Goddess more than ever.

The herald returns, informing us that we have permission to see the Goddess and protector of the Holy Cities of East and West Eden, the Great Lady Anuket. I wrap my scarf around my neck again as we exit the car. The Blackthumb returns to his work, confident that we know the way without an escort. Jaw walks by my side, moving a little more slowly than usual due to bruises on his ribs. I grip his leash tightly as we pass the Crocodiles guarding the basin, but he doesn't try to approach them. The enormous men watch us carefully, looking even angrier than usual. My frozen face barely feels the water splashing onto its skin as we pass the basin.

We enter East Eden at the top of the stairs. Even in the dark of night, the city is still a sight to behold. The pale moonlight casts a blue glow on the plants, fruit, and water. The people in white are gone, most likely sleeping comfortably as citizens of the upper city.

Before the palace doors, we are again forced to disarm by four Crocodiles. The terrifying soldiers pat down our bodies even more violently than last time. Either they just get angrier at night, or something has them on edge. Once the searches are done, two of them push open the doors for us to enter.

"Watch yourself," one of the Crocodiles warns us as we pass into the mouth of the palace. "The Lady is angry. A Handmaiden has escaped."

The doors slam shut, leaving us at the dark base of the throne room stairs. I narrow my eyes in astonishment. Escaped? Why? No one would be stupid enough to actually _want_ to go out into the world, would they? They've all seen Three come back from jobs before - tired, battered, covered in dirt and blood. That should be enough of a hint that the Wastes are no place for anyone but savages and Road Warriors.

"This ever happened before?" I ask Chuckles quietly as we approach the stairs.

"No," Chuckles replies. He sounds shocked. "Never. Why would anyone leave?"

" _How_ would anyone leave?" Three adds, reminding us of the tight security surrounding palace's only entrance.

"It's crazy. I don't understand it." Chuckles shakes his head, visibly confused.

I take a deep breath as we head up the stairs, dreading what lies ahead. It was bad enough when Anuket was content. Now that she's pissed off, there's no telling what might make her snap. No way I'm talking back to her this time.

The three of us enter the long, illuminated throne room. The same odd smell from last time hangs in the air. Electric lights buzz softly overhead, and the two streams of water drift lazily by on either side of us. The throne and dais are empty. This time, Anuket stands in the center of the room, waiting for us. Underneath the translucent gown, her spine and shoulders are rigid, but her knees are slightly bent. She looks like someone preparing to attack. The Goddess's head is held high, and her black, braided hair is arranged in a different pattern than before. The black paint around her eyes is harshly angular, making her gaze seem even sharper. Her painted lips are pressed tightly together. Anuket is shorter than I am without the added height of the dais, but the aura of absolute power she gives off makes me feel like I'm still looking up at her. Beside the Goddess, four Handmaidens kneel on the floor with their heads bowed. Trace is not among them.

The cold moves from my fingers and snakes its way into my gut. She's gone? Trace is the one who left? I don't understand. The scribe was curious about the outside world, sure, but I warned her about its horrors. She told me she wished someone would fix it; I had no idea she meant herself. Why would she offer to teach me to read whenever I came back for another job if she were planning to leave? Even after I yelled at her, she said she'd be here if I changed my mind. It was a song and dance after all. But instead of acting on Anuket's behalf, Trace was hiding something deeper. I hope the Goddess doesn't think I somehow had something to do with it just because I talked to her. I meet Anuket's spiteful gaze, afraid I'll draw suspicion by avoiding eye contact. She looks at me like she's trying to read my mind. I stare back with what I hope is a blank expression.

"Codex, please see to it that our new Road Warrior gets the medical attention he deserves," the Goddess orders as we reach the middle of the throne room. She struggles to keep a straight face and an even voice, just barely managing to control her fury.

"Very well, My Lady," the redheaded Handmaiden replies, nodding.

Codex stands and motions for Chuckles to follow her. He obeys without a word. No groveling at Anuket's feet this time - not when she's this angry. Smart move. The two exit the room through the door to the right of the throne. Beside me, Jaw yawns and sits down near my feet.

"As for you two," Anuket says, looking between the two of us. Her eyes eventually settle on me. "Care to explain what happened?"

"Lady Anuket," I begin, forcing myself to focus on speaking instead of thinking about Trace. "We tracked the ones who attacked your people. Found them burning the bodies. Their leader was a man called Vates. We fought and killed him and his men."

"Excellent," Anuket says, feigning interest. Seems the last thing she wants to be doing right now is talking to us. "You shall be paid as normal after you return the scrap from the site here. For completeness. I'm sure you understand."

"Anuket… Uh…" Three mumbles.

"Speak up, Cyclops," the Goddess commands harshly. "You know I can barely understand you."

"The man leading the savages was an Asgardian. Taught by Bishop."

Anuket stands silent for a moment, staring at Three. She clenches her teeth, flexing the muscles along her perfect jawline. Her eyes fill with the terrible rage she's been trying to hide, and the muscles around her small nose tense up in the tiniest hint of a snarl.

"Please tell me you are joking. If you are joking, I promise I won't have you executed."

"I'm afraid not."

Anuket sighs and puts her face in her hands, completely breaking her usual regal composure. In that moment, the facade vanishes. She's still extremely powerful, but she's also just a person. No Goddess would act like this in front of her subjects. Then again, Three and I aren't her subjects; we're Road Warriors, free men. I glance at the Cyclops, but his face is as emotionless as ever.

"Damn it," Anuket mutters through her fingers. "He wasn't loyal to Thor, was he?"

"I don't know. He may have just been one rebel. Or maybe Midgard is in the middle of a class war. It was hard to say. But Vates clearly had a lot of power; he had a whole War Rig to himself, and he raised ravens."

"I guess I will need to send a diplomat to Midgard to see what is going on," Anuket replies, raising her head and dropping her hands. The calm but prideful demeanor has returned, transforming her into the Goddess again. "I am impressed the three of you took out an Asgardian, however."

"Actually, Lady, Roman fought and killed him. Alone."

"Really?" Anuket says skeptically. She turns her fierce gaze to me, narrowing her green eyes. "How did a lone Road Warrior manage that?"

"Wasn't alone, Lady Anuket." I motion to Jaw at my side. His tail thumps against the floor, and he looks at the Goddess with interest. "We make a good team. Vates didn't expect that."

"Interesting. Well, I'm glad you have made some use out of that hound. Between killing an Asgardian, destroying a War Party, Chuckles losing an arm, and…" Anuket eyes Three's battered torso through his open jacket. "… whatever you went through, I think you deserve a rest. I will send some men to pick up what remains from the fight. It will be here in the morning. You may go rest." The Goddess looks down at the Handmaiden with dark skin and wavy, brunette hair. "Tell Chuckles he has been awarded the rank of Tribune for his bravery and success."

Anuket turns around and heads for the doorway to the left of the throne. The thin, blonde Handmaiden and the woman with pitch black hair follow, walking in the same trance-like state as Trace when she first led me to my room. In contrast, the Goddess's stride is quick and purposeful. I wonder if she's going to rest or make arrangements. She has a diplomat to send and a Handmaiden to find - in addition to running two cities. I don't envy her. Anyone with that much power is bound to have enemies everywhere.

"Is there anything the two of you need before resting?" the brunette Handmaiden asks softly as she approaches us. She is larger than the others and has dark skin with light brown eyes.

Three shakes his head once. I hesitate, knowing exactly what I want to say but unable to say it. Not with the Cyclops here. Need privacy.

"Yeah, could you, uh… take a look at my stitches?" I ask, trying to sound casual. "Think I might have torn them during the fight."

"Of course." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

The Handmaiden starts toward the hall that leads to the guest rooms. I give Three a parting nod and follow her with Jaw in tow. The Cyclops stays behind, making me wonder if he even uses one of the rooms. The only place I've seen him sleep so far is in his truck - Anastasia. Maybe that's the only place he feels safe. Can't say I blame him.

The walk through the hallway is worse this time. Despite the warm air, the place feels cold and uninviting. I peer into each room, looking for someone I know isn't there. The walls feel even narrower than before. I try to distract myself by thinking about what exactly I'm going to say to this Handmaiden. Eventually, we arrive at the same room I stayed in before.

"If you would, please roll up your pant leg for me so I could take a look," the Handmaiden asks politely as we enter.

Jaw jumps onto the mattress and curls up right in the middle. I sit on the edge of the bed and start working on the pant leg. I move slowly, giving myself time to talk to her before she can realize that I lied about the stitches.

"I heard one of your fellow Handmaidens is, uh, not here," I say, keeping my voice low. "Any idea what happened to her?"

The Handmaiden hesitates, struggling to keep her serene expression.

"She… left. Abandoned us. Abandoned Anuket. But there is no reason to talk about something so unpleasant. You have earned a great victory, Roman the Road Warrior." A hint of fear enters her voice. "Please, let me take a look at your leg."

"You're right," I agree, trying not to sound irritated. I don't want to scare her, but I need information. "I did earn a victory. I risked my life for your Goddess and her people - that includes you. Least you could do is tell me what you know about Trace leaving."

It's risky. If this woman tells Anuket that I'm asking questions, I doubt she'll be happy. But I don't know what else to do. I don't even know why I care so much. I'm just tired, that's all. Not thinking straight.

"Trace just… left." Tears start forming in the woman's eyes, and she lowers her head to hide them. "We don't know how or even when. Crocodiles guard every exit constantly. People in both cities would immediately recognize her. We are missing food and a bike, which she stole right underneath the farmers' and Blackthumbs' noses. Anuket suspects she had help. That there is no way she could have left. But us Handmaidens, we know better. We know she is smart enough to do something like this. She must have been planning for months."

The Handmaiden begins shaking. Tears drip from her cheeks and hit the stone floor with a soft tapping.

"Tomorrow, Anuket is going to start a witch hunt to find an accomplice that doesn't exist. Anuket is going to ask you to hunt her down. The reward will be great." She stops for a moment to choke back a sob. "Please. For Trace's sake, don't bring her back. But don't refuse the job, otherwise she will suspect you as an accomplice and have you executed."

She looks me directly in the eye. I study her face, trying to figure out if this is another act. Her face is wet with tears, and her lips tremble. This looks real. Then again, Trace's happiness looked real, too.

"Roman, please," the Handmaiden begs. "Take the job and never, ever return."

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, processing the stream of information and emotion. It's a lot to take in. I rub my eyes with one hand, sighing.

"Smart enough to do something like this," I echo, talking more to myself than to the woman. "She's not smart at all if she thinks going out there is a good idea. Doesn't make any sense."

"I don't know why she would do this. She has always been dangerously curious about the outside world, but…" The Handmaiden wipes away her tears and tries to regain her composure. Her face is flushed, and her eyelids are puffy. "But I shall leave you alone since I doubt you actually wanted me to look at your leg. I am sure you know where the bathhouse is if you are interested."

"Yeah," I say quietly, lowering my hand to look at her. "And, uh… thank you."

The woman avoids eye contact and leaves the room quickly. I wait a few moments, giving her time to head down the hall. Then I get to my feet. The mention of a bath is enough to make me put aside my thoughts for now. They can wait till I'm clean.

"C'mon, Jaw," I call, heading for the doorway. I turn back to see him sitting on the mattress, tilting his head at me. "That's you. _Jaw._ Now let's go, yeah?"

Jaw jumps down from the bed and follows me, wagging his tail. I lead him to the bathing rooms, choosing the same one as last time. The towels have been changed, and the water looks clear and inviting. I shut the curtain as Jaw runs inside. He leans over the edge of the pool and furiously laps up water.

"Leave some for me, yeah?" I tell him as I sit down on the bench and remove my boots.

I pull off my jacket and shirt, tossing them beside the pool. As I take my pants off, I hear something crinkle. Confused, I reach into the pocket and pull out a small piece of paper covered in writing. My heart skips a beat. Trace's note. How did I forget about Trace's note? I should have asked that Handmaiden about it when I had the chance. Then again, if that whole display was some kind of trick, a note from Trace might be a death sentence for me. I look towards the curtain hanging in the doorway, suddenly paranoid that someone is watching me. For all I know, the note says nothing important at all. But if Anuket finds out I've been withholding information - any kind of information - I'm as good as dead. Have to keep it secret.

I stuff the paper into one of my boots and slide into the water. It's just as amazing as last time, and my heart and mind feel a little lighter. I look down at my reflection. My face is still covered in a mixture of Vates's blood and my own. No wonder the Handmaiden seemed scared of me.

It takes forever to rub all the red from my face, neck, hair, shoulders, chest, and hands. The gash on the back of my head is mostly scabbed over already, so I don't think it'll need stitches. I splash some water on Jaw, who still has blood all over his snout. He snarls at me and goes to sulk by the bench. I laugh a little as I pull my clothes into the pool to wash them. The bloodstains will never completely come out, but that doesn't bother me. Just part of the job.

By the time I'm done, the water has a rust-colored tint, and my fingertips have strange wrinkles on them. I get out of the pool and dry myself off with a towel. Then I wring out my clothes several times before putting them back on. The note stays tucked away in my boot, where it can't get wet or fall out of a pocket.

Jaw and I head back to the bedroom. I don't bother holding his leash, trusting that he'll follow me. Seems he's taking as much of a liking to me as I have to him. Maybe I can train him to do some new tricks, like tear out throats on command. Could come in handy next time I find myself in a Road War.

The room feels cold after the slightly warm bathwater. The air smells of earth and wood, free of the strange scent of the throne room. I lie down on the bed. Jaw makes himself comfortable next to me, trying to take up as much space as possible. I leave him be. I'm used to sleeping in cramped spaces. Besides, I don't want to get bitten. I stare up at the ceiling, not bothering to close my eyes yet. I know I won't be able to fall asleep for a while. I'm completely exhausted, but there are too many thoughts racing around in my head for me to be able to relax just yet.

My job is done. I killed an Asgardian and helped take out a War Party. Eden is safe for now, and I'm getting paid tomorrow. Then I'm free to go. But it's not that simple. If what the Handmaiden said is true, Anuket will ask the Road Warriors to hunt down Trace. If I say no, she'll be suspicious. I have to say yes. I doubt Trace will get very far; no matter how smart she is, there's no way she'll survive her first trip in the Wasteland on her own. But when - _if_ I actually find her, then what? The brunette woman begged me not to bring Trace back here, but she didn't say why. Execution, I assume. If the runaway isn't already dead in the dirt out there, that is.

What if Three and Chuckles want to track her down, too? Three could turn it down and go somewhere else, but the reward might be too good for him to pass up. Or he might just let his die decide. Chuckles will do whatever Anuket asks of him, I'm sure. If I want to keep Trace alive, I'll have to find her before they do. And then keep her hidden from everyone Anuket sends after her. And for what? Maybe a couple of reading lessons between running for our lives? Not worth it, especially if Anuket's reward is as great as the brunette woman said. But… would I be able to just deliver Trace to her death without a second thought? I've done plenty of jobs like that before. Why does this one feel so different? Maybe I'll accept the job and then just not do it. Go wherever I want and forget about this whole thing. Avoid Anuket and her anger, avoid Thor and his Asgardians. Go somewhere new, where nobody knows me. That would be easiest. But it doesn't feel right.

I roll over on my side, frustrated. I need to sleep. Can't think straight after such a long day. My muscles are beginning to ache, and my eyelids are heavy. I close them and see Trace's blue eyes staring at me in my mind. Innocent, curious, joyful. For a moment, I thought that maybe, just maybe, she really did see something in me. That she thought I was different.

If only I could read that damn note.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thanks as always to the people reading this story. Special thanks this week to new follower Spartan1725. We appreciate all of you! Stay tuned.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

When I open my eyes again, there's a woman standing in the doorway: the Handmaiden with olive skin and pitch black hair. I blink at her, wondering if it's morning already. I'm not sure if I slept at all.

"Mister Roman?" the woman calls gently. "The Lady Anuket wishes to speak to you before you depart."

I get up from the bed slowly. My body hurts everywhere. Feels like I got run over by a truck. Jaw stands up on the mattress and stretches, yawning loudly. He wags his tail at me in greeting, and I nod in return. Then I look to the bedside table for my scarf before realizing I went to bed in all my clothes. Must have been too tired to notice or care. I roll my stiff shoulders and crack my neck before stepping towards the door. Here we go.

"Lead the way," I say flatly.

The Handmaiden smiles politely and heads down the hall. Her dark hair ends at the shoulder, leaving her entire back tattoo in full view through the translucent gown. All the Handmaidens here seem to have the same tattoo - or at least the same size and format. Some of the words are likely unique to each person, but I can't tell. The Blackthumbs don't have tattoos, but they wear black and white facepaint. I've never seen a Crocodile's back, so they may have tattoos. All I know for sure is that they have green paint and metal piercings in their heads. The citizens of the upper city wear white clothing. Every class in Eden is marked in some way, except the people in the market. Their ragged clothing and deformities make them just about the same as anyone in a Wasteland town.

As we turn a corner, we're intercepted by two more Handmaidens. The thin, blonde woman is escorting Three, and the freckled redhead leads Chuckles. I join the pair of Road Warriors, and together we walk down the hall behind the trio of Handmaidens. Chuckles looks clean and relatively healthy despite the trauma he experienced yesterday. Quick healer. He wears the brown leather jacket he looted from a corpse, but empty lower half of the right sleeve is pinned up, preventing me from seeing his injured arm. Organic must have done a decent job if he's up and about so soon. The young Road Warrior glances at me; his signature, forced scowl is back on his face. His grey-blue eyes look excited, but not as much as they did before we left Eden to do the job. He's a little less naive now.

Three still looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. The purple bag under his eye nearly matches the vibrant bruises on his chest. The rest of his torso is hidden under the green jacket, which is now zipped up halfway. The Cyclops's face is unreadable as usual. He's much better at hiding his true emotions than Chuckles. Or maybe he just doesn't have very many emotions left after all this time.

The six of us enter Anuket's throne room. The three Handmaidens head immediately to the right, stepping up onto the dais and kneeling before their Goddess. The brunette woman is already there, staring placidly at nothing in particular. Any trace of the emotion she displayed last night is completely gone.

On the throne, Anuket sits with her pale legs crossed, just like she did when I first saw her. She seems much more composed now, looking down at us with complete confidence and pride. Her black hair is again arranged in a slightly different pattern, and the braids are full of bright flowers and shimmering beads. Her makeup forms black, wing-like shapes across her eyelids, reminding me of the terrifying birds from yesterday.

We move to stand before the throne. I hold Jaw's leash this time, not wanting him to get distracted by the flowing water or the weird moss. He sits obediently at my feet, sniffing the perfumed air.

"My Blackthumbs have just returned with the scrap from the fight yesterday," the Goddess Anuket informs us, narrowing her green eyes at Three. "Two were maimed retrieving a truck."

"Sorry," Three grunts.

Anuket ignores his apology. "You have also received what you asked for in payment. Roman, you will find it in your car. Three, in a box next to your truck."

The Cyclops smirks slightly. Guess that's what he was talking about when he said his truck would be hard to scrap. Whatever traps he's got in there, I'm just glad none of them were set up in the seat where I grabbed his shotgun. Someday I'd like to rig my ride up like that, but I don't know how. Never been very good with wires or bombs or anything clever.

"And as for the scrap, the three of you are free to scavenge whatever you want," the Goddess continues. "Even you, Chuckles. The scrap was much more than I imagined. There is no way you can actually carry what you asked for, so I will at least give you first pick before I distribute it myself."

"I thank you for your generosity, benevolent Lady Anuket," Chuckles replies. He doesn't drop to his knees like he did before. Instead, he stands up straight beside his fellow Road Warriors.

"Road Warrior Chuckles," Anuket addresses him directly.

"Yes, My Lady Anuket?"

"As I am sure you have been told, in honor of your bravery and triumph in battle, and for acting on behalf of the mission instead of yourself, I hereby grant you the military rank of Tribune. You are always welcome to return and serve under one of my generals if you wish it."

"I humbly accept the title, Great Lady Anuket." Chuckles tries desperately to hold back a smile. "Thank you for the honor."

"I believe Codex also promised you a new War Name. She may now present it to you."

The redheaded Handmaiden stands, gazing down at Chuckles with peaceful eyes.

"Tribune Chuckles the Road Warrior," Codex begins. Her voice is soft compared to Anuket's commanding tone. "You have displayed tremendous courage and battlefield aptitude, receiving commendations from Three the Cyclops. You are the first Blackthumb in these Great Cities' history to become a Road Warrior - let alone one to hold the title of Road Warrior and Tribune simultaneously. In admiration, you are granted the honorary name of a weapon from our Holy Seal: Khopesh."

Codex falls silent, returning to kneel with the other Handmaidens.

"From this day forth," Anuket declares powerfully. "You shall be known as Tribune Khopesh the Road Warrior."

Khopesh looks completely awestruck, knees shaking. Despite how I feel about Anuket, all these rules, and the current situation, I can't help but feel a little happy for the young man. Khopesh will never have an easy life as a Road Warrior; it'll just get harder for him from here on out, and he'll likely die much earlier than he would as a Blackthumb. And even though I'd never wish that fate upon anyone, it's what he wants. In this moment, he looks more joyful than I've ever looked in my entire life.

"Congrats, Khopesh," I say earnestly.

"Thank you, Roman," he replies, his eyes glowing with sincerity. He turns to Three, who gives him a nod of respect.

"Now, on to something a little more unpleasant," Anuket announces, her voice low and stern. Tension fills the air as we await her next words. "I have an escaped Handmaiden: Trace. I don't know how she escaped, but she did. As you know, Handmaidens are eternal servants, unless I say otherwise. Trace left before her time and made a mockery of me, my security, my laws, and my cities. She is to be executed, if she hasn't died in the Wastes already. I am putting an open bounty on her head."

"What is the price?" Three asks, sounding disinterested.

"One wish." The Goddess's voice echoes down the hall dramatically. "Whoever brings her to me shall have any wish they desire granted. An army, wealth, women, residence within my walls, a permanent cut of my crops. Anything. As long as she is here alive, that is. She needs to be made an example to now and future Handmaidens."

"If I see her alive, I'll grab her," Three replies blandly. "But I am going to see Thor; I don't have time or resources to dig for a fresh corpse."

Anuket's upper lip twitches in visible irritation. Seems the Cyclops is finally pushing his limits with her.

"Lady Anuket, I shall do my best to hunt her down after I visit Ares for a new arm," Khopesh promises. "I am significantly less effective with one arm. And if you would pardon me to speak my mind, Lady Anuket?"

"Speak."

"I do agree with Three. If the heretic isn't dead by now, she will be by the time anyone finds her."

"This is true, Tribune," Anuket agrees, seeming more pleased with Khopesh's answer than with Three's. "This is not a job demand, simply early information on a bounty. It will be made public throughout all of Caesar's Empire shortly. Even if my three best Road Warriors don't look for her, the Wastes will be crawling with those with less insight than you in a few days' time."

The Goddess directs her attention to me, staring me down from atop her throne. I return her gaze, trying to keep my face as neutral as Three's.

"What of you, _Aesircide_?" she asks, using a strange word to address me. "What is your business after departing?"

"I'll track her down best I can, Lady," I reply evenly. "But I agree with the others; doubt I'll find anything more than a corpse."

Part of me hopes that's true. If I find her alive, then I have to go through the mess of actually deciding whether to turn her in or not. I don't even know what I would wish for if I brought her back. Upgrades for my car? No, that's thinking too small. A V8, maybe? Guess I 'll have time to think about it while I hunt for the runaway scribe. With Three opting out and Khopesh being delayed, I'll at least have a bit of an advantage. I need to fix up my car first, but that shouldn't take too long with all the scrap we're getting.

"Very well. I wish you the best of luck," Anuket says, satisfied. I hold back a sigh of relief. "Now, it is time for the three of you to depart. You will find the scrap at the cages. Take as much as you can."

With that, Anuket stands up and strides down the left hallway. I watch her go, wondering if this is the last I'll see of her. Depends on what I decide to do out there, I guess. As the Handmaidens follow their Goddess, the brunette woman glances at me. Our eyes lock for a brief moment, but her expression is unreadable. Then she disappears into the dark hall.

"Aesircide, hey?" Khopesh comments as the three of us head for the stairs. "Not a bad title to have. Asgardian killer. You will definitely get some respect wherever you go with Anuket backing that title."

 _Asgardian killer. Aesircide._ It's an awkward title to pronounce, and I'm not sure if I want to go around bragging about killing one of the best fighters in the Empire. Might get me into more trouble than it's worth. Then again, it might also get me some good jobs. Never had a title before, so I guess I'll just have to try it out.

We exit the palace, stepping into the warm light of dawn. To the east, the sun has just cleared the horizon. The Crocodiles keep watch in stoic silence, holding their pristine firearms at attention. We retrieve our weapons and leave the monstrous guards behind, making our way through the upper city. The citizens in white are again gathering crops. Such an easy life. Safe from the bloodshed and madness. But never tasting the freedom of the Road, either.

"You really going to go after the Handmaiden?" Khopesh asks me as the three of us - and Jaw - descend the stairs into West Eden. "It sounds like a waste of time to me, honestly. I don't even want a wish; I have everything I could ever ask for. Some hooligan is going to stumble upon her corpse someday anyway, so what's the point?"

"Whoa there, most honorable slot machine. Are you refusing a job from your Goddess?" Three asks, sounding legitimately shocked.

The Tribune ignores the Three's playful insult, furrowing his brows to think. I look at him in surprise. Figured there was no way he'd miss out on doing something for Anuket, especially something this big.

"I suppose I am," Khopesh replies after a moment. "She has honored me more than I thought possible in my life. Someone else deserves to find a heretic."

"They grow up so fast," Three grumbles.

I snort out a laugh at that. I think I might actually miss these two when we all part ways. My teammates, for a brief time. If things were different, maybe we'd become a permanent team, like my days with Simon and Cord. But I can't do that again. Not yet. Besides, I don't think Three wants to babysit two young Road Warriors any longer than he has to.

"I'm going after her," I say, answering Khopesh's earlier question. "Maybe it'll turn out to be a waste of time, sure, but I don't have any other plans at the moment. How 'bout you? What'll you do after you get your new arm?"

"I don't know yet. Just travel, see the world, and try and find work," Khopesh muses, looking visibly optimistic through his scowl. "I may have proven myself in one battle, but I still have a lot more to prove if I ever want to become as well-known as Three, Fetch, or Bishop."

I give him a nod of approval. I doubt he'll live long enough to be as famous as the Cyclops, but the title of Tribune and one successful Road War under his belt isn't a bad start.

We approach the cages, where the scrap is indeed waiting: a large train with the front end smashed and several chrome trucks in various stages of destruction. The trailer is missing, either left at the crash site or hauled off somewhere else for Anuket's use. The damage caused by Three and Khopesh is a lot more apparent when well lit. The front end is completely flattened. The plow is barely recognizable as a car anymore, having been compressed against the massive machine. The smashed V8 engines are gone, likely salvaged by Anuket's team as trophies. The black metal of the Rig is scraped and dented almost everywhere on the length of the machine, but especially near the front. The chains are barely hanging onto the warped paneling. This machine will likely never ride again. Fine by me. I don't like the idea of Anuket having something so terrifying in her arsenal.

Three heads straight to his truck. The armored vehicle has been stripped of its barbed wire, but it looks otherwise intact. The Cyclops opens the driver door and digs around inside the truck. Then he drops to the ground to inspect the underside of the vehicle and the wheels. Satisfied, he stands up and moves to one of the chrome trucks, rummaging through its contents.

Khopesh looks around the scrapyard, seemingly lost.

"Hey, did you find my bike?" he asks a nearby Blackthumb.

"No, Tribune. I apologize," replies the mechanic, already aware of Khopesh's new title.

"Not your fault," Khopesh responds sullenly. "Could you help me get one of these trucks working?" He raises his partial arm, looking slightly embarrassed. Two days ago, he would have been able to do all the repairs himself. I hope he manages to get a decent mechanical arm in Ares, wherever that is.

"Of course, Tribune," the Blackthumb answers respectfully. If he's jealous of his former peer's promotion, he hides it well. The mechanic grabs a satchel from a nearby table and follows Khopesh to one of the trucks that's in better condition.

Jaw and I step over to my car. The vehicle is a mess - windshield gone, tire popped, hole in the hood, gash on the roof, dried blood everywhere. I lie down and slide underneath. The undercarriage looks equally as damaged as the outside, if not worse. I'm surprised we made it back to Eden in one piece.

Time to get to work. I make my way quickly to one of the trucks, figuring it'll have parts more compatible with my car than the train would. Despite the fact that Three and Khopesh aren't going after Trace - and that I have some time before Anuket makes the bounty public - I still need to hurry if I hope to find the Handmaiden alive. The sense of urgency gives me the energy that lying in bed all night didn't. Unfortunately, I have no idea how I'm going to look for her. I've done jobs like this before, sure, but there's usually at least something to go on. Tracks in the sand, a witness who saw them leave, a trail of blood, _anything_. Trace somehow got past the Crocodiles, stole a motorcycle, and vanished. That's all I know, and it's not enough. I suddenly feel keenly aware of the piece of paper in my boot, like it's about to burn a hole through my foot. It's the only possible clue I have, but there's no way I can find out what it says without drawing suspicion here. I'll have to go somewhere else.

Frustrated, I put those thoughts aside and concentrate on salvaging parts from the truck. Jaw quickly tires of standing around in the sun and curls up next to my car. Not a care in the world. Lucky bastard. All around me are sounds of Road Warriors and Blackthumbs working on their vehicles. It's a familiar, calming racket.

As we work, a Crocodile enters the area and starts patrolling. Probably looking for any Blackthumbs doing something questionable. If Anuket thinks Trace had help getting out, then not even her own underlings are safe from suspicion. The Crocodile walks slowly around the site, stepping around the carnage. No matter how many times I see the monstrous guards, they always intimidate me. This Crocodile is as huge as the others and probably doesn't need that belt-fed machine gun to rip people to shreds - he could do it with his hands. His metal implants alternate between cubes and spikes, shooting out from his scarred scalp and glistening in the sun.

Khopesh and Three ignore the guard and continue their work. Khopesh and the Blackthumb are in the process of switching out the engine block in his truck for a better one from another vehicle. The drum has been stripped from the bed and tossed aside to make room for extra scrap. On the Tribune's head is a grey toque. I don't know where he found it, but it's much better than that stupid, barbwire-covered baseball cap he lost. Behind his fake scowl, Khopesh looks very pleased with the progress. He's the only person around here whose face I've been able to read. I'm sure he'll improve that as he gains more experience as a Road Warrior.

Three appears to be throwing indiscriminate scrap into the back of his truck, which doesn't need repairs. A lit cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth. With his vehicle adequately full, he slams the rear doors shut and walks over to me.

"Well, Roman, this is it," the Cyclops says, exhaling smoke. "I don't know if we'll ever see each other again… World's a big place, you know." He bends over and puts the cigarette out on the sole of his boot before tossing it on the ground. "Good luck out there."

"Same to you, Three," I reply sincerely. "Good working with you. Hope that die of yours doesn't steer you wrong."

"It hasn't so far," the old man grumbles, adjusting his jacket. "I'm alive, and it led me to you."

With that, he gives me a nod and heads over to talk to Khopesh. It's strange, saying goodbye to someone. Not killing them, not watching them die, not leaving without a word - actually saying goodbye. We're both alive and parting ways on friendly terms. Mutual respect, even. Three is the closest I've come to trusting someone in a long time. He's paranoid and bitter and rolls that stupid cube to make up his mind, but he's a good man. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little sad to see him go.

The Cyclops finishes talking to Khopesh and returns to his truck. The armored machine, Anastasia, roars to life and takes off toward the marketplace. I watch it go, hoping whatever business Three has with Thor doesn't get him into trouble. Anuket said she was sending someone to Midgard, but I don't think she'd send the Cyclops. His die makes him too unpredictable. Three must be going there for other reasons. Maybe a job, maybe curiosity about where Vates came from. I'll probably never know.

The Tribune and the Blackthumb successfully get the chrome truck started. They had to cut a hole in the hood so the large, mismatched engine could fit, but it seems to be running just fine. With that done, Khopesh struggles to throw some scrap into the bed of the vehicle. He doesn't take nearly as much as Three, probably still feeling a little humble from his days as a Blackthumb. The truck's driver door has been smashed in near the handle, requiring the Tribune to get in through the window. He doesn't seem to mind since he doesn't bother to fix it. Must be in a rush to get his new arm.

Khopesh climbs partially into his truck, sitting on the windowsill with his feet inside the vehicle. He looks over his shoulder at me, and we exchange nods of respect. Then he slides into the truck and races toward the route that will take him around the market and out of Eden. When he's gone, the Blackthumb calls to his companions. The mechanics leave their smaller vehicles and begin dismantling the War Rig with great enthusiasm.

I go back to work, feeling strangely alone. My vehicle is pretty beat up, but I have all the scrap I could ever want for repairs. If I work fast, I should be able to make it out of here before the sun is highest in the sky. Although I'm in a hurry, I still take time to enjoy working on my car. It's something I'm pretty good at, and there's not a huge chance it'll get me killed, so it's fairly relaxing. I go here and there among the debris, gathering what I need from the trucks and the train.

I change the busted tire first. What I really need is some metal pieces to protect the tops of the tires. I don't think it's likely that a crazed man with a pickaxe will be on my hood again anytime soon, but I never know in the Wastes. I don't have time to cover the wheels now, but I throw some scrap metal in the back that I can use later. Next is the windshield, which is a little trickier. The one from the chrome truck is a little too big, but I manage to make it fit after a good amount of bending and hammering on my car's metal frame. It doesn't look the prettiest, but it'll work well enough.

I pop the hood to take a look at the engine. As I begin inspecting the block, a large shadow suddenly covers me. I whirl around to see the patrolling Crocodile towering over me. I stare up at him, swallowing hard and putting a hand on my pistol. The green man leans down a little, getting even closer to me.

"Message from 'Maidens," the Crocodile whispers. "They think Trace visit Historymen. Trace like books - Historymen have books."

Before I can say anything, the enormous guard returns to his patrol as if nothing happened. The Blackthumbs are too busy working to notice anything. I turn back to the engine, my heart beating a little faster. A lead. I really don't know what it means, but it's something. That's all I need. Seems the Handmaidens really do believe I'm their best bet at keeping Trace alive. Or they're in on the whole thing and are trying to throw me off their friend's trail. Either way, it's the only thing I have to go on right now. All I have to do is find someone who knows about Historymen.

Under the hood, I'm pleased to find that the pickaxe didn't fuck anything up in the engine. I put the cover back down and get to work patching up the hole with black paneling and a welding torch. I move to the gash on the top from that power saw and cover it up the same way. After that, I flatten out the piece of chicken wire and secure it back in the driver window.

The undercarriage is last but not least. It takes the longest, and I keep having to go back and forth from my car to the truck to get various parts. Jaw barely stirs the entire time, perfectly content to nap in the shade. I have no idea how he can sleep all night and half the day. I didn't think that was even possible.

At last, the car is fixed. It looks less like my car than it did before - covered in blood and pieces of mismatched metal. But I don't mind. As long as it works, it's good enough for me. I load as much scrap as I can fit into the back before filling the gas tank with precious fuel. In the box in the back of my ride, I find the cans of food that I asked for. They're old, like the stuff from the market, but I don't think Jaw will mind. Before I cut one open, I scrape most of the dried blood off of my knife. I touch my face, feeling rough stubble against my fingers. Don't have time to shave right now, but at least my knife is finally clean. I cut open up the can and put it on the ground next to Jaw. He wakes up, sniffing the air as he gets to his feet. He smells the open can and wrinkles his nose.

"Horrible, yeah?" I say, able to smell it from where I'm standing. "Wouldn't blame you if you didn't want it."

Jaw looks at me, looks back at the food, and then plunges his snout inside. The can is empty and licked clean in seconds. When he's done, Jaw gazes up at me again and wags his tail in triumph. Guess he likes a challenge. And he was probably starving.

I wonder if Yale and Rhodes have any more of that soup. More importantly, they might know where I can find the Historymen. Merchants travel all over the Wasteland, trading in cities and protecting their wares on the Road. If Yale hasn't heard of the Historymen, maybe another salesman has. I'll ask all of them if I have to.

"Let's go, Jaw," I command, grabbing the container of spice from the car and heading towards the marketplace.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thank you as always to everyone reading this story. Next week: the final chapter of Anuket. Stay tuned.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

I wade through the marketplace crowd, looking for Yale's van and hoping he didn't already move on to another city. West Eden isn't as busy as last time - must be a slower part of the day - but it's still a pain to navigate. Jaw spends almost the entire trip growling and snapping at people who accidentally bump into him. They either jump away or snarl right back. I wrap the end of the leash around my hand to get a better grip, determined not to lose my dog in the throng. Several merchants try to catch my attention and get me to buy their wares: guns, scrap, food. But I have plenty of that now - enough for weeks. What I need is information, and that'll be easier to get that from someone I'm already on decent terms with.

I finally spot the unmodified van parked on the outskirts of the market. Nothing cooking this time. The bodyguard, Rhodes, occupies his time by throwing a rubber ball at the side of the van, catching it on the ricochet, and throwing it again. Either he's not a very good guard, or they've been here enough times to feel relatively safe in Eden's marketplace. Behind the table covered in items for trade, Yale leans back in his chair, drinking something hot from a mug. The merchant looks almost uncomfortably at ease compared to the crowded chaos of the market around him.

The scarred salesman notices me approaching and carefully sets his steaming mug down on the table. Rhodes briefly glances over his shoulder before going back to his game. Guess he doesn't see me as much of a threat. Yale slowly gets to his feet, gripping the billiard ball set into the top of his cane. The scars that pull up his lip make his attempt at a warm smile looks slightly unnerving from, but he seems sincere enough.

"Ah, if it isn't the Aesircide! My good friend and apparently loyal customer!" Yale proclaims, savoring every word. He seems delighted to see me, while Rhodes looks unimpressed. "Don't mind my companion; he is just envious of your latest and soon-to-be-famous kill! Come, come! Have a seat! I wish to talk to you and do some business."

"Uh… Sure," I say, surprised to be greeted with so much enthusiasm. Much like the Blackthumbs already knew Khopesh's new title, Yale is well aware of mine. Seems word travels fast in the crowded city. "But I don't have much time to chat."

Yale gestures to a worn, plastic chair placed at the end of the table. I take a seat as Jaw curls up under the table, glad to be out of the crowd.

"What do you need?" I ask.

Yale adjusts his brightly colored jacket and sits down again. He picks up his mug and takes a small sip before speaking.

"Well, traveler, I am not just a merchant of goods, but a merchant of information. I travel the Wastes, selling weapons, food, equipment, and information in exchange for just the same." He pauses to drink some more, looking pleased with the taste. "And I would love to hear the story of an unknown outsider killing an Asgardian straight from the horse's mouth - before it gets corrupted by rumors and legends. So, if you are interested in any of my wares, I will happily exchange them for your story."

I hesitate, weighing his offer in my mind. Don't really like telling people about myself. Last time I did that, the person ended up disappearing, and now I'm trying to track her down. But if I can trade the story for something the information I need and save the spice, maybe it's worth it.

"Fine."

The merchant grins, revealing yellowed teeth further stained by whatever he's drinking. He settles back into his seat, awaiting the tale with visible anticipation. I kept the story short when Anuket asked what happened, but here I'll add a little more detail. The more Yale likes the story, the more likely he'll be to trade something valuable - or at least I hope so. I take a deep breath before beginning.

"When we finally tracked him down, the Asgardian, he'd killed all of Anuket's people. Some nailed up, others thrown in pits. All burning. Black birds and smoke everywhere. He was standing on top of the biggest Rig I've ever seen, shouting at us about a great War and these crazy visions. His men started playing music - drumming so loud I could barely hear my engine. We got split up, me and my teammates. I got around just in time to see the Asgardian rip the arm off one of them with a pickaxe. Then he came at me. Got onto my car and smashed his way inside. But Jaw, here…" I indicate the dog under the table. "Jaw just about ripped his throat out. We fell out of the car. Wrestled in the sand. I pinned him down as he was bleeding out. He said his visions were right. Total madman if you ask me. Then I slit his throat and, uh, that was the end of it."

Yale's deformed smile widens further as the story concludes. I lean forward in the chair and loosen my scarf a little, feeling uncomfortable. Still not used to talking this much.

"What an exquisite tale, Roman," the merchant commends. "I'm still quite impressed that you managed to kill an Asgardian. Do you know who he is working for?"

"He was trained by someone called Bishop at some point," I reply quickly, anxious to get to my side of the deal. "Other than that, I don't know."

"Do you know why he was outside Anuket's borders? Or anything else?" Yale pauses and looks closely at me, seeming to sense my impatience. "I am getting ahead of myself. What would you like in exchange for this information, friend?"

"I'm hoping _you_ can give _me_ some information," I reply, struggling to sound casual. If the merchant knows how important this is, he might be less willing to part with the knowledge for the low price of a War story. Salesmen are always looking to make a profit, no matter how friendly they might seem. "I need to see the Historymen. Looking for someone who might have gone to see them."

"Historymen?" Yale raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Well, if you want to find _a_ Historyman, that's easy. Just go to any major city except… Except this one. Most Gods use Historymen as advisors, accountants, or assistants. Anuket uses trained Handmaidens instead. I don't know why. But five Handmaidens seem to do the job of one Historyman quite nicely."

The merchant pauses, listening to the rhythmic banging of Rhodes's ball on the side of his van as he thinks. I watch him intently, hanging on every word.

"Or you may find one alone in the Wastes as an ascetic," Yale continues. "But _the_ Historymen - no one really knows anything about them or where they come from. Some say they come from schools made specifically to train Historymen, but no such school has been found. Others, myself included, think they just learn their own way from old books and abandoned libraries of days past. No two Historymen are created the same way or in the same place…" He trails off for a moment, lost in thought. Then he shakes his head. "I'm sorry I can't help you out more. Historymen are one of the unquestioned mysteries out here."

I rub my stubbled chin with one hand, trying to think through the noise of the market. The Crocodile who delivered the Handmaidens' message said Trace likes books. But that doesn't seem like a very good reason to leave. Would she really risk her life to read some dusty, old pages? That's probably the stupidest thing anyone could do. Besides, she already had books in Anuket's palace; I saw them myself. But if the Handmaidens who knew her best think she's after knowledge, then I guess books are my best bet.

"Is there a library in any nearby cities?" I ask after a moment.

"There is, but I am not talking about just _any_ library with the Historymen. I am talking about an expansive, pre-Fall library full of knowledge of the civilizations that came before us. Not endless bureaucratic bookkeeping."

Yale takes a long sip of his beverage, humming with satisfaction. Then he sets the empty mug on the table and leans back.

"But a nearby city is as good a place to start as any," the merchant continues. "The two closest are Midgard and Ares. They are about the same distance from here. I am not sure exactly which is closer, but it is so slight it doesn't make a difference."

"Right," I mutter, more to myself than to the salesman. "Guess I'll try one of those."

I don't really want to go to Midgard. Three said something about a feast and no one minding that I killed an Asgardian, but I also don't want to get pulled into any dispute between Thor and Anuket. I have other things to deal with right now. I know nothing about Ares other than it's where Khopesh went to get a new arm. Not much to go on. I wish I could just follow some tracks in the sand or some smoke in the sky. That would make things a lot simpler.

"Unless you know where I can find one of those pre-Fall libraries," I add, looking at Yale hopefully.

"No, not exactly. Most recorded ones have been destroyed or looted into uselessness." Yale twists his face in thought, making it appear even more disfigured. "However, there are some legends of one in the Silt Sea, far, far north of here. Past even Ashtown and the seat of the Caesar himself."

"Don't waste your time," Rhodes pipes up, not bothering to stop his game or look at us while speaking. "Nobody who goes there comes back. It's suicide. Whoever you are looking for is either not there or dead."

"I'll keep that in mind," I mumble disappointedly.

I stand up, eager to be on my way. Jaw jumps out from the under the table, excited to go somewhere else.

"Thanks for your help, Yale," I say, nodding.

"Always my pleasure, Roman," the merchant replies warmly. "I wish you luck, I really do. Just don't let Rhodes get to you." He picks up his mug as I leave, turning to his companion. "Rhodes, could you please make me some more coffee?"

Rhodes grumbles under his breath and climbs into the van. I leave the two of them behind, disappearing into the crowd with Jaw by my side. We weave through the throng of people and make our way back to the cages. Jaw seems content to follow without me having to tug on the leash, but I keep an eye on him anyway. Now that Three and Khopesh are gone, it's just the two of us, and I'm suddenly paranoid that he'll leave, too. No point in denying it - I'm already too attached to this damn dog. I'm sure it'll come back to bite me sooner or later.

Now I have a decision to make. My gut tells me Trace wouldn't go to Midgard. From what I've heard, they respect strength and glory there more than anything else, so I don't think it's the first place Trace would want to go for knowledge. Then again, I might just be thinking that because I also don't want to go there right now. As for the library in the Silt Sea, that's not an option at this point. It's too far away and too dangerous. Can't risk wasting time out there. If I can't pick up her trail in one of the cities, I'll go north as a last resort. Or maybe I'll just give up the whole thing at that point. I'll make that decision if the time comes.

Sounds like Ares is my best bet. If I'd known sooner, I might have asked Khopesh if I could tag along with him. Then again, I don't think I want the Tribune to know about my lead on Trace, small as it may be. I respect him more as a fighter now, sure, but that doesn't mean I trust him. Despite his claimed disinterest in tracking down the Handmaiden, he might change his mind if he sees a good opportunity. His lifelong loyalty to Anuket will be a tough thing for him to shake. Who knows if he'll ever truly be out from under her thumb?

Back at the cages, the Blackthumbs have finished clearing most of the scrap and debris. The Rig is mostly dismantled already, leaving just the frame and miscellaneous bits of salvage lying around. The Blackthumbs sit in assembled rigging and continue to work away at the modified train. Soon there will be nothing left of Vates's terrifying machine. Good riddance.

My car remains untouched, of course. The Blackthumbs have seen what I'll do to anyone who tries to mess with my ride. I can only hope that the people of Ares show the same level of respect. As I approach my freshly repaired vehicle, one of the Blackthumbs climbs down from the Rig. He is even younger than Khopesh. Beneath his face paint is a childish face and an eager expression.

"Roman, sir!" the boy says breathily. "Is there anything you require of me before your departure?"

"Which way to Ares? And how far?"

"West, Aesircide. About a two day's drive." The Blackthumb points toward the horizon, squinting in the sun that's now risen high overhead. "Be careful, though. Along the path is the Graveyard of Giants. Very dangerous, full of tribal barbarians. You could go around, but it would add about a day and a half to your journey."

"Great," I reply, sounding nearly as grumpy as Three. "Thanks."

"We will take the corpse off your hands," the boy continues, glancing excitedly at the body of Vates chained to the back of my vehicle. "Great Lady Anuket would like it! We were simply waiting for you to return from the market before touching your property. May we recover the body now, sir? Or would you prefer to remove it yourself?"

"I'll do it."

I remove the chains and throw them into the back of the car. Then I pull the corpse off my vehicle, leaving a large, dried bloodstain behind. I drag Vates's body over to the Blackthumb and drop it roughly into the dirt. A once mighty Asgardian, now wasting away in the sun. No black birds to pick apart his corpse here.

"All yours."

The young mechanic enthusiastically tries to lift the corpse, but it's too heavy for him. A slightly older Blackthumb jogs over to help, and together they take Vates away, heading for the stairs to East Eden. As they disappear from sight, I breathe a small sigh of relief. The blue-eyed madman is finally gone for good. Time to move on.

"You ready?" I ask Jaw, opening up the passenger door so he can climb in. He barks, which I take as a confirmation.

We climb into the car, and I start the engine, feeling good about the repairs. With any luck, my ride will hold up better in the next fight, which might be soon if this Graveyard of Giants is as dangerous as the boy said. No way I'm wasting a day and a half going around. Maybe our victory against Vates and his acolytes is making me over-confident, but it doesn't matter; I can't afford to spend time avoiding danger. Wonder if Khopesh decided to take the long way around. Probably. He's not in any condition to fight, and I think he knows it. If things go well, I have a good shot at making it to Ares before the Tribune. If I can pick up Trace's trail fast enough, he might never even know I was there. That's probably for the best.

I squint through the new windshield, taking one last look up at the waterfall and greenery up East Eden high above me. Not sure if I'll be back anytime soon. Or ever. Have to wait and see, I guess. I know I'm avoiding making a final decision about Trace, but what's the point in stressing about it when odds are I won't even find her? Three said not to worry about deciding my stance on something that might not even happen. He's not exactly the best role model when it comes to decision-making, but I think I'll take his advice this time. He couldn't have survived to be that old without learning a few lessons, yeah?

We leave the cages, the Blackthumbs, and the remains of the War Rig behind. Jaw wags his tail and looks out the window, ears perked up excitedly. I take the path around the marketplace, avoiding the crowd and picking up speed. At the outskirts of the lower city, I turn the wheel West. Anuket's city falls far behind as I race toward the horizon. Never much liked cities, anyway. The Road is where I belong. I press the pedal to the floor, smiling a little as the engine roars across the Wasteland.

 **\- END OF BOOK ONE -**

* * *

 **Author's Note:** A very special thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story. It's been a blast sharing this with you all. There are some changes I plan to make with Book One: namely, the backstory chapter will be deleted, and some of the details from that will be added to other areas. This will require reuploading all the chapters, so if any of you followers don't want to receive notifications about that, I suggest you unfollow the story for now. If you want to join Roman as he continues his adventure, keep an eye on my profile or follow me. Book Two, Ares, will begin in two weeks. Stay tuned.


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